Flesh and Blood
by Elantil
Summary: All Draco knows when he wakes up is an insatiable hunger. "The tantalizing aroma grows stronger. Saliva rushes in his mouth and he swallows." Now with continuation. A Dramione fic. [Has a parallel prequel: Dying of the Light] COMPLETE
1. Flesh and Blood: Serendipity

**Disclaimer:** **Harry Potter is the property of J.K Rowling. Believe me, if I had a say it in, there will be Big Changes.**

 **Flesh and Blood**

He hungers.

It is the only thing Draco is aware of when he awakens.

His head pounds like he has downed bottles of Ogden's finest the night before, there is a heaviness in his limbs, his clothes are rumpled and look like he's been dressed for a funeral. Sitting upright is a feat of its own, and he can't quite discern the metallic taste lingering in his mouth. Still, the only thing that matters is the unscratchable itch that comes from the depths of his stomach.

He tries to call out for Mitzy, his personal house elf, but all that comes out is a croak. She comes anyway, bearing a glass of water, and he smiles, grateful for the little creature's loyalty. She bows low as he sips the water and tells him there is food in the dining room should he wish it then disapparates with a pop before he has a chance to dismiss her.

The mention of food is enough to propel him from the bed and he does, legs tangling up in the sheets in his haste. The hunger yawns and he nearly sprints down the stairs, almost slipping on the lacquered wood twice.

On the dining room table lies a veritable feast. Draco briefly wonders what the occasion is though the thought does not stay with him long as the food commands his attention.

He hardly knows where to start and settles for the plate of toast nearest to him. The toast is warm and the smell of butter lightly wafts up to him. He picks it up and it's just this side of crumbly, just the way he likes it. The hunger groans and Draco can't stand it any longer.

He brings it to him and takes a huge bite of the buttery toast then proceeds to immediately and violently, reject it.

His reaction is so instantaneous he doesn't even have the time to process it. In his mouth the toast is ash and tastes of charcoal. He gags forcefully when it refuses to leave his tongue and he dry heaves until all of it is gone.

His grey eyes are wide and spittle hangs off from the corner of his mouth as he stares at what is left of the offending toast on the floor. His stomach rumbles in protest and Draco tries to think of the last time Mitzy's cooking is this bad. No incident comes to mind.

Draco doesn't think it is even possible for elves to ever be bad in cooking.

It must be a fluke, he reasons, a piece of toast gone wrong, somehow. He pushes the plate of toast aside, feeling a little too queasy to attempt a different piece and reaches for the plate of English bacon.

The next hour is a cycle of agony as he eats and retches, eats and retches.

Eggs taste and feel like rubber. Porridge turns to sludge and is equally rank. Fresh fruits bear the sourness of rotting rubbish. Draco even attempts his least favourite mushrooms — if it tastes terrible before, now it is like eating manure.

His throat screams at him to stop and his stomach starts to clench painfully at the mere thought of forcing in another mouthful. Still, he orders the elves to bring more, more, **more**. He keeps trying till he weeps but the cloying emptiness in him remains unsatiated.

He is hungry — so _hungry_ — but he cannot eat.

* * *

Draco wanders the endless hallways of his childhood home aimlessly. He can think of naught else but the incessant pressure within telling him to feed, demanding to be filled. Like a parasite, it persists, insists. He can feel himself teetering precariously on the edge of sanity.

Driven half mad, Draco doesn't notice the scent at first, but it pierces through the static haze that has presided over him since the incident in the dining room and he is abruptly returned to his senses. It is distinct and achingly familiar yet he can't quite put a finger on it.

Before he realises it, he is standing in the dungeons, surrounded by that heady, intoxicating smell. He barely even notices the pressure anymore, the hunger having seemingly been abated temporarily.

He locates the source to a closed door. It isn't locked and swings open easily under his touch. When he raises his head, he wishes he didn't come down here at all.

There is only blood, as far as the eye can see.

An ill sense of unease washes over him; Draco has seen enough death to know how much blood a human body can contain.

The blood is a deep dark red, dried and flaking in some places. It is mostly pooled on the floor but there is plenty splashed across the walls and ceiling too, looking very much like a particularly gruesome imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting.

Where the blood is concentrated most Draco is able to vaguely make out what looks to be an arcane circle drawn on the stone. Any attempts to approach it are immediately repelled by a sensation of being seared alive by the very air around it. Draco forgoes going near it again but knows enough to sense the dark, ancient magic reeking out of the area.

He sticks to the walls, edging around the circle and searches the room for anything — perhaps an identification of who might have been down here. When he finds the long blond hair, a shade darker than the customary Malfoy brand of colouring, attached still to scalp pieces on one end, Draco turns tail and runs.

He flees the manor, oblivious to the calls of various house elves and apparates blindly into the night.

* * *

Draco has lost all semblance of time. He doesn't know how long he's been walking the streets of Muggle London, nor does he even have any real memory of how he got there in the first place. All he remembers is... red and a persistent hunger that refuses to leave. Most of the day's memories are a blur, but when he thinks of getting food, his stomach muscles constrict and his throat dries up.

He shakes himself and moves on. People stare as he passes them by, pointing and laughing behind shielded mouths and he nearly lashes out at them right there and then. It is only the thought of a life sentence in Azkaban that stays his hand. He burrows his hands into his robes pockets and tucks his head deeper into his upturned collar, taking comfort from the feel of his wand in hand as he quickens his pace.

Draco has no destination in mind but anywhere is better than this suffocatingly crowded London street.

It is only when the child falls does he notice he has bumped into another person. The child looks to be no older than six. Draco remembers a Muggle family, with a little boy as young as that, chained up then slaughtered — for _fun_ — during the war. Their blood is no muddier than his own.

He forces a trembling smile onto his face and offers the child a hand. She blinks up at him from her position on the ground, eyes bright with unshed tears. Shyly, she takes his hand and he pulls her up, hands moving, unthinking, to pat her of any dust.

Her mother comes running, dirty blond hair bouncing behind her, apologizing profusely while berating her daughter for running away from her.

Draco suddenly remembers that he hasn't seen his mother since he woke up. Unbidden, the tears flow and try as he might, he cannot stop them. He is a sobbing mess and the poor girl's mother is probably terrified, but still he can't stop.

He feels a small tug on his robes and looks down and the girl is beckoning him to come closer. With tears still coming unfettered and what he suspects is snot joining the mess, he squats down and leans forward to the child. She timidly sticks out a closed palm, opens it, and in it is a sweetie.

But Draco sees none of that. He doesn't see the bright smile the child gives him; neither does he see the look of concern for him on her mother's face. His heart pounds an erratic rhythm in his chest and his breath quickens, rapidly devolving into frantic pants.

Draco turns and flees again, for the second time in a day, though this time he runs for a different reason.

He runs because for a split second there he had wanted to sink his teeth into the little girl's succulent cheek and eat the flesh off her bones.

* * *

He stumbles into an alley, still somewhere in the middle of Muggle London.

His lungs burn and his legs ache from over-exertion. He hasn't stopped, dared not, not while there are still people — luscious, exquisite, delectable — all around him.

The hunger **needs**.

Draco bites down hard on his hand to stifle the needy whine that threatens to spill. Shock, horror, disgust — _bliss_ — fills him when a chunk of his hand tears off and he swallows involuntarily. The meat slides smoothly down his throat. No gag reflex comes.

He stares. There is a hole in his hand and the only thing he is capable of doing is to stare. There are no words in his thoughts, no comprehensible, coherent words; just a clashing cacophony of screams and laughter tinged with hysteria. His ragged breaths grow louder in the alley.

Brusquely, the anxiety filled sounds coming from him stop. Draco isn't alone in the alley. He catches the whiff of something pleasant and it instantly calms him.

Draco is reminded of Sunday roast around the Malfoy dining table. It brings up recollections of a lifetime ago, of warm, delicious meals in Hogwarts, surrounded by giggling friends. He breathes in deeply, desperate to fill his lungs with the enticing fragrance. His mouth starts to water.

It, whatever it is, is just beyond him around the corner, almost within reach.

He forgets the hole in his hand, forgets the panic he felt in front of the girl child. His mind is sharp and focused; he doesn't falter in his steps. Swiftly, he rounds the corner.

Draco will recognise that bushy head of hair anywhere. She has haunted his dreams enough that there is simply no mistaking it.

She isn't alone either. He might have interpreted the scene a different way if he hadn't been staring so intently. But as it is, there stood Hermione Granger, war heroine, brains of the Gryffindor Trio and all round golden girl, latched onto an unknown man's — Muggle? — neck, arms wrapped tightly around him to stop him from struggling.

From where she is clamped on his neck trickles two thin rivulets of blood. The man's mouth is open and he seems to be gasping though Draco can only hear a buzzing sound.

He may have stumbled or gasped himself for Granger's eyes snap up to him at that moment. She doesn't stop though, even as she's made aware of her audience, and he stares, unblinking, in sick fascination. The tantalizing aroma grows stronger. Saliva rushes in his mouth and he swallows.

The man twitches as the last of his life leaves him. Granger releases the death grip on his neck but makes no other movements, propping the dead man between her arms casually like he's nothing more than a mannequin.

Draco is frozen to the spot, eyes flitting between the poor bastard and her as she calmly watches him with a calculating gaze. He has to keep swallowing now, Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, lest he slobbers in the most undignified manner.

Draco can see the moment she makes her decision. An empty smile lifts the corner of her lips and she pulls her wand from a hidden pocket. He vaguely remembers his own in his robes but the alluring scent and roaring hunger working in tandem renders him uncaring of whatever she has planned. His entire universe is condensed to a point in her arms. It is all he wants, all he needs.

Draco barely flinches when she makes to cast a spell. He is distantly aware of the sudden absence of the buzzing noise.

"Hungry, Malfoy?" She says before tossing the body at him. Her smile turns feral and her eyes glint with a danger that sends a shiver running down his spine.

Their first meeting — their past is irrelevant — is serendipity.

* * *

She partakes in blood and he consumes flesh. They are the perfect complement and he will have it no other way.

* * *

 **A/N: I had originally wanted to make this a crack!fic, but as is typical with anything that I touch, it veered off completely into some sort of dark recess in my mind and became this. I have quite a few inspirations for this fic. It mainly comes from a D &D post on tumblr (available on my tumblr blog, which is accessible through my profile, if anyone's curious) about an Eladrin vampire and an Eladrin bladesinger with ghoul-like tendencies. Another big influence would be Tokyo Ghoul which should be obvious to anyone who has read the manga or watched the anime. I am aware that ghouls do exist in the HP verse and those are mostly harmless, but I'm returning it (at least the version that Draco becomes) to its original Arabic roots which isn't very nice at all. **

**At the moment, I have plans to turn this into a long serial, so I'll see how that goes.**

 **Be nice to authors, leave reviews. And I do mean reviews, not just favs and follows. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten an author's day.**


	2. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 1

His senses don't return till the man is half gone and Granger is staring at him like he's a monster.

There is blood on her mouth and the body is her handiwork yet she stares like he's the one with red hands. Which, he realises — belatedly — they are.

Draco drops the man — just strings of meat and bones — like it scalds him and he looks at his hands in horror. The hole where he has bitten a chunk off is gone, returned to its previously smooth and unblemished state, but he can't unsee the viscera under his nails and the deep red drying on his skin, stretching it tight.

The flesh is heavy in his stomach and the lingering taste is a heavenly nectar on his tongue.

An inhuman howl of anguish sounds nearby and it isn't till Granger is shaking him forcefully that he realises he's the one making that dreadful noise.

He turns wild eyes to her, wanting her to understand that he didn't know, he didn't want to — _it wasn't him, it wasn't him, he had no control, it wasn't him_ — but he's immediately silenced by the _pity_ in her gaze.

She clasps one hand over his mouth, ignoring the way he flinches, and makes a quieting motion with her other hand. She waits till he nods in compliance before she slowly removes her hold on him. He resists the urge to snatch the retreating hand back, needing the warmth of companionship but she saves him from his dilemma as she grabs his arm instead and with the sensation of being sucked through a tube, they leave the scene of the crime.

The only indication that they were ever there in the alley is the pile of flesh and bones, soon to be carted away by stray dogs and cats.

* * *

The place that they arrive in isn't familiar to him. Draco is all too aware of the heaviness settling — churning — within him. That, combined with the queasiness of the unexpected apparition is too much for him.

"Bathroom," he manages before a hand comes slamming down over his mouth in an effort to stem the oncoming tide.

Granger hurriedly waves away the wards to allow him entrance and wordlessly leads him to the room and he immediately hunches over the porcelain bowl. He heaves and heaves but nothing comes out. Tears stream down his cheeks and he can hear himself gagging, attempting to retch, but his guts clench and hold on tight to the long-awaited sustenance against his will.

The previous hunger is almost preferable to this torment of _knowing_ what exactly has finally managed to satiate him. Granger is standing right there, leaning against the door frame, and he knows, he just knows, she is watching him — judging him — and he fears she's right; he is a monster. He feels the chill on his left forearm and he repeats the thought to himself. Draco clutches the bowl and hangs on for dear life as his throat spasms again. Beads of sweat drip off his forehead as the room seem to constrict and spike up in temperature.

His vision tunnels and he's distinctly aware of a desperate panting, the sound loud and vulgar in the acoustics of the bathroom.

He doesn't put up a fight when he feels a hand on his back, running up and down his spine, soothing and comforting. His vision clears as he is reminded of his mother and he chokes back a sob as he turns his face away from Granger, hating himself — hating her — with every fibre of his being. She makes little shushing noises as she kneels beside him and threads her other hand through his hair, dull nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

He doesn't recall how long they stay like that. It feels long enough.

When the rolling in his stomach and the screaming in his head finally subside, Draco pushes up against his haunches and looks up at Hermione Granger, her mouth still rimmed with red. She becomes self-conscious when his gaze lingers and she abruptly removes herself from his side and goes toward the sink, turning on the tap and grabbing a hand cloth off a nearby shelf.

Draco watches quietly as she wets the towel and scrubs at her mouth vigorously. She glances at him periodically from the corner of her eyes, though he finds he can't quite meet them. His gaze flickers instead towards the bathroom mirror, covered with muggle newspapers boasting headlines like **'People say I've had a full life - but I ain't dead yet** ' and ' **Ice cream face new curbs'**. He shakes his head, his mind feeling too ill-equipped to even begin to try and comprehend muggle culture.

The minty smell hits his nose first before he notices that Granger has finished with her cleaning ritual and is now holding a clear glass of pale green liquid at him. He raises an eyebrow and eyes the offering quizzically.

"It's mouthwash," says Granger. "Muggle mouthwash. It'll help." She is peering at him critically, and he wonders if she still thinks him adverse to muggle products considering what she had just witnessed.

"Don't drink it, just gargle," she tacks on and he shoots her a sardonic look. She merely shrugs and he downs the solution, only to cough it up violently as the mint transforms into soap on his taste buds. He inwardly curses himself for forgetting his predicament so soon and hurriedly spits the rest of it out into the toilet bowl, scraping his tongue with his fingers in order to get it all out. He doesn't miss her frown.

She pours out the remaining mouthwash and fills the glass with tap water, handing it to Draco again. He recoils away from it, not at all keen to have a repeat performance and the crease on her forehead deepens.

"It's water," she says and holds it out towards him, nudging the air a little.

He hesitantly takes it from her and after an experimental sip, deeming it safe enough, he washes his mouth out with the water. Draco can feel her curiosity burning but he shakes his head slightly, unwilling to explain, at least not then.

Mutely accepting his decision for the time being, she pushes a cloth to him.

He accepts the towel, the same one she used, and wipes furiously at the stickiness around his lips. His stiffens as he notices the towel smudging increasingly crimson from his still red hands, and she, observant as always, pulls him up towards the sink, handing him a bar of soap. There is a brush on the sink, meant to scrub floors and he picks that up too without asking. They do not speak as he scours his hands raw, the only sound in the room coming from the water rushing from the tap and the painful brushing of slick skin.

Draco is the first to break the wordless silence.

"How do you do it?"

Granger resumes her previous position of leaning against the door frame, her line of sight intent on the pink water whirling down the drain. She doesn't pretend to not understand the question.

"I do what I have to survive. A concept you should be exceedingly familiar with," she says. Her gaze does not waver as the scrubbing sounds intensify.

"Enough," she says but he doesn't stop. The water's formerly pink tint takes on a darker hue.

"Enough, Malfoy," she says again, her tone more insistent this time, but it is like he has gone deaf.

"Draco," she says, her voice barely a whisper. Slate grey eyes, pupils a mere pinprick in them, snap up to her face at that. "Stop."

The brush clatters to the floor.

* * *

For the first time since he's apparated into the house, he realises what has been unsettling him so about the place. Most of the windows have been obscured by thick heavy curtains, permitting not even a sliver of light through. The ones that can't be affixed with a rod have been securely covered up with newspaper, same as the mirror in the bathroom. He suspects that if he peeks behind the drapes, he'd find the same makeshift covering on those previous windows as well.

It feels like a prison or perhaps, more fittingly, an asylum. After all, he can feel the lunacy creeping along the fraying edges of his mind.

As they pass another paper covered mirror, he finds he is glad for that. He can't bear to look at his own reflection — he contemplates if it's the same for Granger. Then he remembers the thick leather-bound texts in the Manor's library that he used to peruse whenever he was bored and he wonders if she even still has a reflection to begin with, if the authors have gotten it right at all. Would it be a rude question to ask? He decides to err on the safe side and keep his curiosity in check for now.

"What is this place, Granger?"

"It is... was, a safe haven for - for people like me," says Granger then she pauses, thoughtful, and Draco nearly runs into her back at her sudden halt. "People like us?" She questions. He shrugs helplessly. She looks cynical but shakes her head as if to shake the thoughts away and continue on.

"Where are the rest now?" He asks, looking around as they walk for any hints of the presence of others.

So far, the house seems devoid of any personal touches, boasting only of bare necessities. Even the Manor has more of a homely atmosphere to it than this place — he could at least point out spots where pictures of his family in better times still hang. He notes though that there are dust lines where something must have hung or stood before.

"Gone. Buggered off underground. I don't know, I didn't ask," she says brusquely.

"What happened to them?" He presses on.

"I don't know, Malfoy!" She snaps and he quietens, observing the blush of anger that has spread to the tip of her ears. He's mildly amused that she's still capable of such telling bodily functions and he finds himself thinking of what other parts of her are still human in that sense. He looks away from her then, fixing his gaze firmly on his feet, ashamed at his cheek.

If she notices his bowed head, she doesn't comment, just resumes pulling him along gingerly by his wrist. He doesn't need to look to know that the self-inflected wounds on his palms are now gone, faded into a mere rash. They traipse up the stairs and he dully notes more dusty outlines on the walls.

She leads him to a bedroom and explains that hers is right next door should he need anything then she unceremoniously disappears into her room, closing the door shut behind her.

He ends up hovering in the doorway of the — it doesn't feel like his — room, unable or unwilling to step in, he's not quite sure which.

He stands there for Merlin knows how long until a creaking sound is heard and her door opens slowly, that bushy hair coming out first before her face appears in view. She looks at him questioningly and he can only shrug helplessly once more.

She scrutinizes him warily while he stares dumbly at his assigned room, taking in the comfy looking bed with the customary beside table and lamp ensemble, and, as anywhere else in this house, the tightly drawn curtains. It doesn't seem uncomfortable but he can't bring himself to step a foot across the threshold into that darkness.

Finally, Granger sighs tiredly and opens her door wider, her head tilting inwards in invitation.

He hesitates, only briefly, as her lips turn down in annoyance, before striding past her and into the lamp lit brightness of her space.

"I only have one bed," Granger begins. "You'll -"

"I'll sleep on the floor," Draco interrupts. "I don't even need a sheet. Just... Just don't send me back into the other room alone."

He could tell she was about to say something else, judging by the irritated look she got, but it softens at his — pathetic — plea and instead she says, "Don't be daft, Malfoy. The bed is big enough for the two of us. You're not an animal to be made to sleep on the floor."

"Could have fooled me," he mutters under his breath, hopefully soft enough to escape her notice. She gives him a sharp look as he pretends to be fascinated by the carvings on the bed post. He doesn't recognize the pattern but it is made of oak, sturdy and solid.

When she moves to go out, his head shoots up in alarm.

"I'm going to the next room to get clothes for you, Malfoy," she says, her tone reassuring, and he mentally kicks himself for all his little slips of weakness.

"You can't sleep in that." She gestures vaguely at his dress shirt and trousers, his outer robes having been discarded ages ago.

He nods and stands there awkwardly till she returns, arms bearing neat stacks of folded clothes. She hands a pair of sleeping bottoms and shirt to him and he obediently changes while she busies herself with making room in her drawer for the new additions.

The shirt is odd and she laughs at him as she explains that it's called a t-shirt. It is comfortable enough though the sleeves are far too short for his liking and he keeps tugging at the left one, knowing full well that it is a futile attempt to cover the prominent mark so far down his arm.

She sits on the bed and flips the duvet down, an unspoken summons to him. He lifts the corner she has turned down and slips underneath it, careful to disturb as little of the shared space as he could.

They settle on the bed, him as close to the edge as he could get without falling off, and her, rather too close, he thought, to his side — funny how he could declare this as his so easily — of the bed.

She twists to turn off the lamp. Darkness floods the room. He screws his eyes shut against the pitch black and struggles to control his sudden erratic breathing.

"What are you, Malfoy?" she asks suddenly, voice piercing through the encroaching madness in his head and he startles. He waits till he has calmed sufficiently — helped by the ghosting of her tentative fingers against his arm — before attempting to answer.

"I don't know," he says and just like that the words come spilling out and he tells her everything. The inability to consume normal food, the agony that followed that discovery, the sweet smell of the blood wafting from the dungeons, the little girl — everything.

As they lay there in the darkness, conversing in hushed tones, unaware of whether the sun or the moon is up outside, Draco wonders if Granger is as reluctant to be alone as he is.

* * *

 **A/N: So here it is, the continuation. I initially intended to post this as a separate story, but seeing as how some readers have already been following the one-shot, I decided to just continue it from there. There is a prequel to this, Dying of the Light, that I'll be posting just after this. I highly recommend reading that as well. The plan is to have them both updated within the same week. For the first chapters, I've posted them both at the same time, but expect this to differ after this.**

 **As always, be kind to authors and leave a review. Even a simple "I like it!" is enough to brighten any author's day.**


	3. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 2

**A/N: If you're not aware, there is a prequel to this: Dying of the Light. That will be updated tomorrow.**

* * *

Harry Potter has not slept properly for months now. He wants to rest, but every time he closes his eyes, he thinks he can hear Hermione pleading, Hermione screaming, Hermione lying on the floor of a manor while a deranged creature carves a slur into her arm and his eyes shoot open, perpetuating the cycle of insomnia.

The only time he manages to sleep without anything plaguing him are the times when he's worked himself to the point of complete exhaustion so he does exactly that.

He's swaying on his feet as he stands outside the door to Kingsley's office, but the voices still chase him when his eyes flutter shut so he forces them open and knocks once, twice, thrice.

On his fifth knock, the door swings wide and Kingsley is looking at him oddly. Harry stares back dumbly, fist still raised, about to attempt a sixth knock.

"You can stop knocking. I've told you to come in a few times now," Kingsley says, somewhat apprehensively. "Didn't you hear?"

"Sorry, I'm just distracted," says Harry, waving a hand in apology. Understanding washes over Kingsley's features and Harry feels immediately defensive even though the man has been nothing but helpful. Kingsley gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and gestures for him to go in. Harry walks stiffly into the room, all too aware of Kingsley's steady gaze on his back.

Kingsley waits till Harry has settled himself on a chair before moving behind the desk towards his own and sitting down.

"What can I do for you, Harry?" asks Kingsley, clasping his hands together in a stance that Harry has seen many times before. He tends to slip into it when attempting to placate the press regarding some unpopular ministerial decision.

"We both know why I'm here. Let's not dance around the issue, Kingsley," says Harry, irritated. "Hermione-"

"Dawlish assures me that he has assigned our best people on it, Harry," interrupts Kingsley, hands still glued together in that infuriating manner. Harry springs out of the seat, a tensed coil winding in him as he clenches his fist, green eyes blazing while he paces the room.

"Then they're not good enough! It's been months, Kingsley!" Harry shouts. Kingsley remains unflappable and it only serves to anger Harry further. His steps come down harder; a visible track starts to form in the carpet under his path.

"The last time she went missing..." begins Harry before trailing off, shaking his head furiously, still pacing. Kingsley watches him calmly from his damn seat, waiting.

The last time she went missing, Hermione had returned, seemingly untouched — normal. Harry wonders, not for the first time, if he had missed something crucial back then. But they were just so relieved to have her back that they didn't question what exactly she's been through. She's Hermione Granger, war heroine, brains of the Golden Trio — there's nothing that she cannot do once she's put her mind to it; it's hard to think otherwise. Hermione did nothing to discourage that image as well.

Harry stops and grips the back of the chair tightly. A creaking sound emits from under his fingers, but still Kingsley barely reacts, only raising a dark eyebrow.

"Put me on it! She's my best friend, my sister!" demands Harry.

"This is Dawlish's decision, not mine. I'd rather not interfere in what the Head Auror decides is best," says Kingsley. A louder creaking sound is heard again. Kingsley sighs and suddenly he looks far older than his years suggest. He gets up and goes towards the fake window which is charmed to replicate the weather outside. The sun is setting, lighting the office up in an orange blaze. His body casts a long shadow into the room. He sighs again and shifts to grasp his hands behind his back, eyes still staring somewhere past the open blinds.

"Harry... his choice... It's not without concern. When was the last time you slept, Harry?" asks Kingsley. Harry grunts rudely, it is an irrelevant question as far as Harry is concerned.

"That doesn't have anything to do with the situation," says Harry. The sentence comes out in an odd flat monotone, not what Harry intended, but he can no more take it back than he can traverse backwards through time.

"It has everything to do with the situation," says Kingsley. "You're not doing anybody any favours. Why do you think Dawlish has been keeping you on paperwork only for so long?"

Harry opens his mouth to retort but he has no real response to that so he grudgingly shuts his mouth and directs a glare that would make Hermione proud instead to the back of Kingsley's head.

"Don't force my hand, Harry," says Kingsley. "I did it to Ronald; I can do it to you too." Harry's fist clenches again at the mention of Ron. He knows perfectly well how Ron feels.

"She's always been there for us," says Harry quietly. "Now she needs us and we're not there for her." He breathes out, an exhale of defeat and resignation, for now. He turns to the door and starts to leave.

Just as his hand closes around the knob, Kingsley speaks again. "For what it's worth, Harry, I'm sorry. I'll personally let you know if they find anything."

Harry merely nods, not really concerned if Kingsley is able to see the gesture, and slams the door shut behind him.

* * *

"Bloody hell, mate," says Ron by way of a greeting. "You look like shite."

Harry blinks the exhaustion out of his eyes and looks up into the face of his other best friend. If Harry looks like death warmed over, Ron looks even worse, more akin to a member of the most definitely dead for a few weeks now than a human. The trademark Weasley red is even more garish against his ghastly pale skin, making the sunken, purple, bruises under his eyes ever the more obvious. Harry resists making the comparison of Ron's skin tone to the Malfoys' complexion out loud.

"What nonsense are you spouting now, Weasel," says Harry in his best affected Malfoy drawl. "I'm always perfect."

"Merlin, Harry," says Ron, cringing like he's just eaten something foul. "Don't do that. You're terrible at impressions."

"Well, and here I was, contemplating a future in stand up," Harry deadpans and clutches his chest dramatically. "Whatever shall I do now?"

"Stand up?" says Ron, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. "You just stand."

"Never mind," says Harry, waving a dismissive hand. "It's a muggle thing. I forget wizards don't have a sense of humour."

Ron chuckles and Harry ducks his head down, busying himself with shuffling papers. There are numerous reports due, but after a few false starts and a lot of uncontrolled swearing; Harry isn't in any position to be writing up detailed accounts of a wizarding domestic dispute involving a pair of charmed shears and several expensive dress robes from Twilfitt and Tattings that quickly spiralled out of control.

A hand comes into Harry's sight and starts thumbing through the papers, turning several so the hand's owner can better read what's been written.

"They've got you on desk-only jobs, huh?" says Ron somewhere above him.

Harry attempts an unaffected shrug.

"Yeah," Harry says.

"Could be worse, mate. You could be me," says Ron and there is no mistaking the bitterness in those words.

"Ron..."

"Hey, I get it. Mental breakdown in the middle of an investigation. Beat a suspect into a bloody pulp. I'd suspend, sorry, 'force to take a leave of absence' me too. I'm as mental as your girl now," says Ron, his tone as light and as nonchalant as he could make it. Normally, Harry would have made some reprimand, or at least a disapproving response at Ron's derisive jab at 'his girl' but... Harry let it pass without comment.

"Why are you here, Ron?" asks Harry without looking up. He arranges and rearranges the same few papers.

"I just... I just wanted to know if there's anything new," says Ron. Harry didn't have to see Ron to be able to imagine clearly the slumped shoulders of his best friend, the frustrated run of a hand through his ginger hair that accompanied that statement. Sometimes, it's hard to believe that they've known each other for ten years now; their first meeting seemed only like yesterday.

It didn't do, however, to dwell on the past. Especially not when said past entails so much ugliness.

"Go home, Ron," says Harry. He forces a kind smile on his face and looks directly at Ron. "It's nearing that time of the month, isn't it? Lavender needs you."

Ron makes a frustrated noise and Harry shakes his head slightly, though he doesn't allow the smile to waver.

"I promise. You'll be the first I go to when something comes up."

* * *

"Fuck!" Harry curses when he stumbles through the floo and nearly plants his lips to the ground, only barely managing to latch himself to the mantelpiece in time.

"Cock, wank, bugger, shit, arse, head and hole!" comes the litany of swears when Harry, who having straightened himself out, had turned around to get away from the damnable fireplace and had promptly stubbed his toe into the corner of that infernal structure.

"That certainly explains Teddy's expanded vocabulary," says a wry voice behind him somewhere.

Harry rapidly blinks the unshed tears away and spins around to see Andromeda with her hands over the ears of a grinning three year old Teddy Lupin. Harry cringes and offers an apologetic smile to the older lady, to which he receives a raised eyebrow in response.

"Uncle Harry!" screams the child as he comes running, chubby arms flailing wildly, and wraps himself around Harry's legs.

"Hullo kiddo," says Harry as he bends down to pat the boy affectionately on his head, the colour of his hair fast turning into an identical shade of Harry's black.

From behind Andromeda comes blond hair and movement. A tiny smile lifts the corner of Harry's mouth when he flicks a glance in that direction. The smile grows wider when he feels Teddy snuggling his knees, lightly butting and rubbing his head against them like a cat.

"Sorry, I'll try to censor myself more around him," says Harry to Andromeda. "When did you come?"

"We dropped by for tea," says Andromeda, frowning as her eyes flit over Harry's face. "Teddy wanted to see you before we go."

Harry looks away and tries, futilely, to shield himself from Andromeda's scrutinizing gaze. "I'm sorry I haven't been by to visit lately," he says.

"How are you, Harry?" asks Andromeda. Harry squats down, steadfastly looking away from Andromeda, and occupies himself with pulling and smushing Teddy's face, eliciting a current of giggles from the young boy.

"I'm fine," he replies. He sneaks a glance at Andromeda and immediately wishes he hadn't. Her smile is sad and Harry mentally berates himself for being the one who put it there.

Harry sighs heavily and rakes a hand through his unruly hair tiredly. Teddy, who remains blissfully unaware of the situation between the adults, starts to babble about his day.

" - it was huge! I wanted to take it home, but gran -"

His knees click as he stands and he gives Teddy an encouraging nudge under the chin which serves to make the boy more excited to share the details of how giant the caterpillar that got away was.

"- almost as big as my arm, definitely as thick -"

"I'll be fine," amends Harry. Although Andromeda looks as sceptical as ever, she relents and nods.

" - so colourful, it was pink and green and blue and had little yellow spots too -"

"Take care of yourself, Harry," says Andromeda. "If not for your own sake, then at least for Teddy's."

"What? What? What? What?" asks Teddy at the mention of his name.

"Nothing, dear boy," says Andromeda. She reaches down to grab Teddy's hand while gently manoeuvring him towards the floo. "I was just telling your Uncle Harry what a good boy you were today."

"I was very good, Uncle Harry," rushes the boy to reassure Harry, his voice solemn and serious in the way that only a child could be.

"I'm sure," says Harry and ruffles the boy's hair. Teddy blanches indignantly and scowls as he tries to fix it, prompting a chuckle from both his guardians.

"Say bye, Teddy," admonishes Andromeda.

"Bye, Uncle Harry! Bye, Auntie Luna! BYE KREACHER!" Teddy screams the last bit and a crash is heard from somewhere in the house.

"Come see us soon," says Andromeda. "Teddy misses you."

"I do! I do! I do!" chants the boy as grandmother and grandson are whisked away in green flames.

A pair of arms snake themselves around Harry's waist and he instantly sags in the hold, leaning heavily against the girl plastered to his back.

"The Wheezumps are swarming today," says Luna, her lilting voice a soothing balm to frayed nerves.

"Are they?" Harry says with a chuckle. He feels her nod against his back and he smiles.

"Yes. They feed on dreams and regurgitate them out as nightmares till eventually they drive their hosts mad," she says, shrugging like she is discussing the weather instead of the literal stuff of nightmares.

"That's a highly misleading name," Harry says, frowning a little as he strokes her arm gently.

"Mhm... " She hums, creating light vibrations that help to relax him. "It's often things with the silliest names that turn out to be the most deadly."

"It is, isn't it?"

"A warm glass of milk helps," Luna continues. "But I find that hot cocoa works better." She pulls away from him then, cold air rushes in to fill the space left behind and he shudders.

Just as he was about to protest, she takes his hand and leads him to the sofa. She sits first and pats the cushion beside her, looking at him expectantly.

He huffs but can't help a smile as he settles down next to her. Seemingly out of nowhere, Luna pulls out a steaming mug of cocoa and pushes it into his hands. Between the heat of the beverage and Luna's body warmth, Harry feels the tension in him beginning to melt. Harry breathes a content sigh as she draws lazy circles on his knee all the while nudging the cup further up towards his mouth.

He sips the cocoa and instantly grimaces. The girl has a sweet tooth that would make Hermione's parents tear their hair out in frustration but still he downs the cup to the slow movements of her hand.

Harry feels his eyes starting to droop. Before the mug can fall out of his grasp, Luna eases it out and gently tugs him till he's lying down with his head on her lap.

He grins lazily up at her as she brushes the hair out of his eyes and off his forehead. His weak grumblings are ignored when she goes to pull off his glasses and sets them on the coffee table.

Luna hums softly, a tune he has heard when she putters about the house. As his eyes flutter shut, it is not Hermione that he hears but Luna's lullaby.

* * *

 **A/N: The response to this has been amazing, I thank all of you from the bottom of my shrivelled up heart. As always, be kind to authors. Leave reviews, even a simple "I like it!" will make an author's day.**


	4. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 3

**A/N: Dying of the Light was updated yesterday.**

* * *

Draco awakes with his hands shaking madly. Though the air is cool, his body feels warm and when he wipes a quivering hand over his face, it comes away covered in a light sheen of sweat.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position with a muted groan, unable to get the tremors under control. It feels strange, like he's missing something but he can't quite put his finger on what exactly. Draco presses a heel into an eye to try to alleviate some of the pressure building in his head and searches blindly with the other hand for his wand.

When he sweeps a trembling hand under the pillow and over the bedside table and doesn't feel his wand, he starts to panic. Anxiety builds and pounds in him the longer he fails to find it. Draco grows increasingly frantic, feeling the top of the sheets, under, even burrowing his hand into the pillowcase, just in case, but only grasping air.

He is ready to flip the bed but stops when he hears a loud exhale from the other side of the bed.

He is not at home. This is not his bed. His mind reels.

A feminine sigh comes again and he feels the bed dip as the other occupant moves and mumbles something incomprehensible.

Granger. He is at Granger's. Wherever Granger's is. He remembers now why the room is plunged in darkness. Bit by bit the night's events returns to him. The previously mild headache increases in its ferocity. Draco shakily rubs his temples and tries to remember where he has placed his wand.

It is in his robes. And his robes have been discarded downstairs. He almost sags with relief.

Draco casts a side glance towards the general direction of Granger, but it is so dark, he shouldn't have bothered. It is only then, in that still darkness, that he notices that there are no breathing sounds coming from her. He briefly ponders if he himself does it only out of habit and not necessity.

She sighs and turns over again. He nearly reaches out to her but the tremors ripple through him again and he hastily snatches his hand back, cradling it against his chest like a hurt animal.

Instead, Draco turns his mind to the matter at hand and attempts a wordless summon of his wand. No pointy stick comes hurtling towards his outstretched palm. He tries again and waits. Still, nothing. He hasn't failed that since... He can't remember when. Perplexed, he tries for a verbal one this time.

"Accio my wand," he whispers, cautious not to wake up the sleeping woman beside him. His brows knit together when again, nothing happens.

"Accio wand," he hisses. Worry surges through his system when this doesn't even procure him Granger's wand which he knows to be right under her head, within easy reach.

Draco half-staggers out of the bed in his haste to get up. The lack of light impedes him and he barely manages to muffle himself after stubbing the same toe twice on two different pieces of furniture. Fortunately, Granger seems to sleep the sleep of the dead and barely stirs at his expletives, save for an inarticulate moan or two.

Once free of the bedroom and thankful for the dim lights placed strategically throughout the house, Draco makes a sprint downstairs to where he last remembered seeing his robes.

* * *

Draco bites his inner cheek to stop the scream of frustration that threatens to spill from his throat. But he doesn't stop himself from flinging his wand at the wall where it hits with a dull thud before dropping unceremoniously onto the floor.

For a moment, he freezes, casting a wary glance upwards at the ceiling then at the stairs. After a tensed moment of waiting and listening, Draco sighs, ruffling both hands through his near-white hair to grip them almost painfully. He paces towards where his wand has landed, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his pyjama bottoms and stares morosely at it.

For what felt like hours, Draco has been trying to cast the simplest of spells and has managed to succeed at a Lumos the grand total of once. The exhilaration from that achievement quickly sputters and die when he fails to replicate the success. All this while, his hands have yet to stop trembling.

A break, he thinks, is what he needs. It's probably just exhaustion and all the excitement in the past twenty four hours catching up to him, though the explanation sounds weak even in his own mind. Still, he rather be grasping at straws than to contemplate the alternative.

Draco stalks to the bathroom, leaving the wand where it lies. He would go to the kitchen, but he doesn't know where that is and he's in no mood to go around exploring.

The glass clinks jarringly against the tap. Draco grimaces, cursing his condition. How he wishes he has something stronger than water but knowing his luck, he'd vomit it up the second it passes his lips. Life only gets better and better.

The bottom of the glass hits the sink a few times before he manages to set it down properly. Draco grips the side of the sink and leans his forehead against the covered mirror.

 **-on Friday were £2.1 billion by Spectrumco, backed by Sonera, the Finnish telecoms company, for one licence and £2.23 billion** \- **move will enable Mezzanine to sell music online through Power-net's telecom network in an encrypted format** \- **Once viewed as the last resort of those who found it difficult to sell** -

Draco closes his eyes against the words swimming in his vision. At this close proximity, the ink seems to pulse and writhe. He shifts his head so only his left temple is touching the surface, the paper crinkling as he does so.

 **-The law says anyone working with food must be fully trained for their job. You will need food safety qualification and you may want** -

Draco blinks. He is sure he's seen something small and black moving on top of the newspaper coverings. But when he blinks again, it is gone.

Perhaps, he muses, that is a sign — a sign that he has finally gone off the deep end. Now wouldn't that be the cherry on top of the trifle?

He jerks back suddenly when he feels something scurrying up his leg, goosebumps erupting along its path. It is tiny and prickly and has far too many legs and he doesn't like it — not one bit. Draco spends far too long shaking and patting his bottoms until he's satisfied there is nothing else crawling up his skin.

Swiftly, he vacates the bathroom, deciding that he no longer wants to be in the same space as whatever those little buggers are. He closes the bathroom door — quietly — for good measure. Not that it'll help much, but he'll feel better about it at least.

Draco makes a mental note to inform Granger about the dismal hygiene in this house.

The reality of his circumstance sinks in on his retreat to the living room. Draco stops before fully entering the room.

"Accio wand," he says, flat and monotonous. His arm is stretched out expectantly but the rest of him seems sunken into himself. The wand doesn't even so much as budge an inch.

Draco scrubs at his face tiredly as he bends down to pick up the wand. He doesn't hear the first one drop. It lands on its back, wriggles upright and dashes away.

A few more drop around him, like black round pellets of hail. This time, he does hear them. Grey eyes widen when he sees bugs, all of them black and insidious, struggling on their backs on the floor. Draco takes a hurried step back.

Time seems to slow for him as he lifts his head to a sight he hopes to never see again.

Above and all around him is a pulsing mass of black, writhing and twisting together. Millions of tiny dots, most with too many legs, crawl over one another, fighting, struggling, and many more are raining down. His ears are ringing but he can hear above that a din of chittering, clicking, buzzing, coming from them.

He doesn't know why he can't hear them before.

One drops on him. They swarm. Draco screams.

* * *

Hermione presses the cold compress to Malfoy's forehead. She doesn't like how he feels far too warm beneath her hands. He murmurs something unintelligible and shifts again. She's been wiping the sweat from his brows ever since he fell into the fitful sleep. It is only slightly more comforting than the seizure he had before that.

She had panicked when she heard screaming, loud enough to wake her, and she had run downstairs only to find him convulsing on the floor.

Hermione still doesn't really know what to make of Malfoy, but witnessing that... It isn't something she's keen on seeing again anytime soon.

The first thing she does is to turn him on his side, which is, when she has sufficiently calmed enough to consider, the right thing to do. The wrong thing to do is to try and relax his mouth for fear of him biting his tongue, which he does anyway. He also — unintentionally — bites down on her hand when she tries to perform the aforementioned wrong action to do.

The puncture wounds have healed magnificently, of course.

After she's made sure there's nothing obstructing his airway — she isn't entirely sure if it is a necessity, but it's better to be safe than sorry — all she's done is cradle his head in her lap and tend to him as she waits for him to wake up.

Malfoy's eyelids flutter and she gently lays him on his back again, gallantly ignoring the sour smell that wafts up to her, as unfocused slate grey eyes slowly blink open. For a few moments, he just lies there, staring groggily at her and vaguely running his hands up and down his body as if checking if it is still there.

Once or twice, his gaze will suddenly dart to the ceiling and walls and his eyes will widen, almost comically, like he's expecting an ambush then he'd sigh in what sounds like relief and relax again.

"I didn't... eat anyone, did I?" Malfoy slurs.

"What? Oh. No. No, I think you bit your tongue," says Hermione as she fusses with pulling the wet hair from his forehead back so they don't get in the way of the compress.

"That would explain the taste," he mumbles and — attempts to — nod weakly.

"Open your mouth, will you?" Hermione says and at his incredulous look — she is pleased to note that his mental faculties seem intact — she adds, "I want to check the extent of the damage."

Hesitant, he opens his mouth. Hermione casts a Lumos, at which he inexplicably stiffens, and using the light, peers into the open cavity.

"It looks like we have something in common, at least," she says as she extinguishes her wand with a muttered Nox. "It's completely healed up." Malfoy makes a derisive noise which prompts Hermione to raise a brow at him.

"Look on the bright side," Hermione says, shrugging a little. "No more foul tasting potions for the both of us."

"Joy," Malfoy deadpans though a tiny smile curls the corner of his lips.

"You don't have epilepsy, do you?" asks Hermione, turning serious. Malfoy barely blinks an eye at the sudden mood change.

"What's epiplepsi?" asks Malfoy.

"Merlin, wizards," she says, exasperated. "How do you even survive this far is beyond me. You had a fit earlier."

"A fit?" says Malfoy, sounding genuinely confused. "I don't... remember that. But I-" he cuts off and stares hard at some point beyond Hermione's head.

"What is it?" asks Hermione. She tries to twist and follow his gaze, but sees nothing save the bare ceiling.

"There were... bugs, insects. Many, many of them. Millions," he says distantly. "The noises they make... They were everywhere. All over." His hands gestures vaguely at his self.

Hermione's mind whirs and starts piecing parts of the equation together. "Malfoy, when was the last time you drank?" Hermione asks.

His brows knit in concentration. "I had a glass of water before... this," he says.

"No," Hermione shakes her head. "I mean something stronger."

Malfoy barks out a scathing laugh, coarse and scratchy. "I haven't had _that_ in more than a day."

"I don't think I can, anyway," he adds, his tone far more casual than is necessary. "Not anymore."

"How long?" she asks, as she replaces the cool cloth with her hand. His temperature seems to have gone down a little.

"Since a year or so after the war ended," Malfoy shrugs. He reaches up to her arm but doesn't pull her hand away, just lets his fingers hover over her skin lightly.

"Things have been shite since then?" Hermione asks.

"That's one way of putting it," he replies. The hand that has been ghosting her arm grabs her suddenly. Hermione barely flinches and just makes to look down at him calmly. His eyes flit over her face, searching.

"Why are you alone, Granger?" he asks. At that, she pulls away immediately though not enough to unseat his head from her lap.

"What do you want me to say, Malfoy?" Hermione demands. She can't help the agitation that arises at his — judgmental — question. "That I can't bear having Harry and Ron look at me while I'm this?"

"Does this give you some sort of pleasure? Knowing that the Mudb- "

"You don't have to be," he cuts her off. Her mouth opens then shuts, opens then shuts, like a particularly unflattering goldfish. She scowls at the too smug look that comes over his face, no doubt crowing something about being able to render Hermione Granger speechless.

But, she finds, it is hard to keep her anger up at that stupid smug face and that stupid unsolicited declaration. Hermione deflates.

"I know," she says, quietly. He hums softly and returns to stroking her left arm. She shifts it slightly when his fingers wander too near to her inner forearm.

The silence that settles between them is almost comfortable.

"I think I know what you are, Malfoy," she says, almost whispering. His fingers still.

"How?" he asks, wary.

"Books. Deduction," she says simply. "I could be wrong but..." He closes his eyes and nods.

"Are you afraid?" he asks, his tone carefully even. Hermione looks down at the pale man using her thighs as a pillow, his white hair fanned out like a halo, features having grown nicely into that pointiness of his childhood and mulls it over.

"No," she says, at last. Malfoy cracks an eye open and looks at her impassively.

"You looked like you were," he says and she finds herself hating that dead timbre.

"It's not fear, Malfoy," Hermione says, one finger tracing over his brows and down the straight ridge of his patrician nose.

"I could eat you still," he chokes. "You smell -" he takes in a deep breath. His mouth works as he struggles to find the right word, "good," he finishes lamely.

"You could," she agrees but doesn't remove her finger from its determined path.

* * *

 **A/N: As I mentioned yesterday, after today's update I won't be updating for a few weeks as I'm leaving overseas to further my studies and I'll be taking the time to get myself settled and what not. Do not worry, I will be back, I'm a chapter ahead at this point and I'll be taking the time to write up more chapters even if I'm not posting them up yet.**

 **As always, be kind to authors. Leave reviews. Even a simple "I like it!" is enough to brighten an author's day.**


	5. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 4

**A/N: Dying of the Light was updated yesterday. If you haven't been reading that, do. This and that are two halves of one whole.**

* * *

Harry practically wolfs down the fry up the second Kreacher places a fully laden plate in front of him. Kreacher ends up jerking his hand back hurriedly, looking genuinely afraid that Harry might mistake him for a particularly delicious piece of bacon and attempt to devour him instead.

Luna smiles serenely and thanks Kreacher, gently waving him away from the kitchen, before joining Harry at the table. She watches Harry attack his food with vigour as she casually drops cube after cube of sugar into her already sweetened mint tea.

"A ravenous appetite is a good indicator that the Wheezumps have vacated the premise," she comments while blowing on the hot tea, causing the minty smell to waft across to Harry.

"Is that so?" Harry says around a mouthful of eggs and sausages. "Then I suppose Ron is a perpetual Wheezump free zone."

"They aren't too fond of gingers," Luna agrees.

"Oh? Why is that?" asks Harry while chewing thoughtfully.

"Apparently they taste like carrots," says Luna and Harry nearly chokes on his food. Luna thumps him on the back as he sputters and wheezes while gasping something that sounds like "went down the wrong pipe."

The excitement of choking to near death on a bit of sausage coupled with contemplating how the Weasleys may taste like is enough to put a damper on Harry's appetite and he reluctantly pushes his plate away.

Taking that as her cue, Luna picks up the plate, scraping the leftovers into the bin and starts on the washing up. She has an enthusiasm towards chores that Harry has not seen in anyone before, preferring to do them by hand and even Kreacher has learnt that there is no winning with her when it comes to that.

She is humming her little tune as she soaks her arms up to her elbows in soapy lather while Harry is at the table, briefly skimming through the Prophet.

The whole scene is so domestic that Harry can't help but grin goofily at Luna's back as he sneaks a peek up from the paper.

His grin gradually fades though when he notices the day printed on the top right corner of the newspaper. It is something that he does every Saturday, but it never gets easier.

"Perhaps she just doesn't want to be found."

"Sorry, what was that?" Harry asks distractedly. He hasn't stopped glowering at the date and yelps when Luna places a wet, foam covered hand on his shoulder.

"The butterflyweeds are flowering beautifully this year," she simply says, smiling beatifically at him. Harry wraps his arms around her and pulls her gently towards him, uncaring of the wetness that now encircles his shoulders and buries his face into the softness of her stomach.

"I didn't realise it was the right season for flowers," he says, voice muffled by her shirt.

"Magic," Luna says. "They're not native to Britain either."

"Is that allowed?" he asks.

"I won't tell if you won't," she says and he feels her shrugging in his hold. Harry chuckles and she giggles melodically from the vibrations the sound produces.

"You'll bring this along, won't you?" she asks, nudging him in the side of his head with a bouquet of butterflyweeds. Harry has no idea how she always seems to be able to produce things out of thin air. He could have sworn under oath and veritaserum that she did not move elsewhere from her time at the sink to her spot now in front of him, neither did he hear the tell tale swooshing of something being summoned.

"I'm not sure she has a -"

"Cupboards in the kitchen, top right," Luna easily answers Harry. "Use the blue one."

"How do you know?" asks Harry though he isn't sure what exactly it is that he's asking her about.

"I have a very good memory, Harry," says Luna, sounding seemingly offended.

* * *

The flat remains unchanged since the last time he left it. Harry can't help the crushing disappointment that courses through him.

Harry knows she's smarter than that, and if it's all intentional then this is the last place she'd return to. But it is a thought he refuses to — can't possibly — entertain so he continues to hold on to that shred of hope that one day something will be out of place and life can finally continue.

He stalks to Crookshanks' food container and sighs, disappointed, that it is still full as ever.

It seems unlikely that Hermione will ever willingly leave the blasted half kneazle behind, but one'd never know the temperament of these magical half-breeds. Harry doesn't think they take to change too kindly and he half hopes that the familiar will return to his old stomping grounds once in a while.

So far, the cat hasn't bite, so as to say.

Still, Harry bends and picks up the food bowl, empties it of the stale feed and refills it with fresher stock, knowing the snob of a cat will only turn up its nose at food that's more than a few days old, let alone a week.

As is routine, he moves his attention to giving the place a quick dusting.

Harry isn't fond of doing these things by hand, the feeling of it too familiar to his less than desirable childhood, but Hermione had always been particular about using magic to clean. She kept insisting that magic invariably left dust bits behind — imperceptible, but she'd know they're there. He feels it only right that he continues with the tradition, this being her place of living after all.

Once he's done with that – less meticulous and more a perfunctory introduction of duster to surface – he sets off to find the elusive vase that he's never seen anywhere in the flat before.

It is exactly where Luna says it is. In fact, for a person who didn't much fancy flowers, Hermione has quite the collection of receptacles meant to hold flowers. Harry counts at least five of them.

Bewildered and more than a little amused, Harry picks out the one that Luna suggested. Thankfully, it is the only blue one in the set. For the life of him, Harry has never been able to tell apart Iris from Periwinkle blue.

To his credit, Harry does give a valiant go at flower arrangement. Unfortunately, he has as much aptitude on the subject as Ron has with dancing — that is terribly and involving a lot of squashed toes. In the end he decides to chuck them haphazardly into the vessel and call it abstract art.

The blue of the vase clashes horribly with the orange of the butterflyweeds in Harry's opinion but after the one lecture on Luna's part — turns out you can take the girl out of Ravenclaw but you can never take Ravenclaw out of the girl — about contrasting colours, Harry had wisely shut up and learned to accept it as it came.

He still isn't entirely convinced that purple and yellow should be placed together in any universe but he isn't keen on having another colour wheel chart brandished in his face. There was something about the usage of colours that set Luna off the same way anyone pondering the usefulness of exams sets Hermione off.

Harry can't help but grin at the thought of the women in his life and their various strange obsessions though the brief felicity only lasts till as soon as he remembers where he is and why he's there.

Harry heaves a heavy sigh and rakes a hand through his unruly hair. Even Luna, bless her heart, has never been able to tame the infamous Potter hair.

Taking one last glance around the one-bedroom flat, Harry checks that everything is in order before leaving the place until the next Saturday.

* * *

The door swings open easily under Harry's touch and he steps in from the cold autumn air to the warmth of a burning fireplace and heating charms.

Pulling off his coat, Harry gives a curt nod at the bartender who stops wiping down mugs to reply with a two finger mock salute. He scans the pub and even through the dim firelight, his gaze easily alights on the redhead that's busy piling himself with a firewhiskey butterbeer combination. Harry winces in sympathy in anticipation of Ron's morning after.

He makes quick work of the short distance and drapes his overcoat on the chair next to Ron before clapping the other man on the shoulder.

The lack of any reaction tells Harry far more about the state of his best friend than the man himself is able to articulate.

"What's got your knickers in such a twist that you just had to call me out?" asks Harry after plopping himself down onto the seat.

"Harry!" yells Ron a little too loudly. A quick glance around tells Harry that the pub is empty save for the one surly patron in the corner and a giant German Shepherd that he keeps feeding crisps to.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, just the bloke I want to see," sings Ron, sloshing his firewhiskey butterbeer as he sways the mug in an attempt of keeping to some unknown rhythm.

"Oh?" says Harry dryly. "I wouldn't have known, especially not from the hysterical letter that Pig dropped off earlier."

"And will you keep that thing still?" says Harry as Ron's mug comes precariously close to tipping all over his self.

"Don't be a git," sulks Ron, taking a big gulp of his drink. Harry makes a face at the very thought of drinking that swill. "It's a time for celebration!"

"What are we celebrating?" asks Harry suspiciously. "And why are you even out? Isn't Lavender-"

Harry never gets to finish his sentence since Ron immediately places a sticky hand onto his face and starts groping it while making shushing noises.

"Shh... All in good time," slurs Ron. "Drink with me, Harry!" he says and brandishes the mug triumphantly.

"Ged yer 'and od bme!" muffles Harry while trying, and failing, to get Ron to relinquish his death grip on his mouth and cheeks.

"Not until you get a drink, mate!" says Ron. "Barkeep! Another for the Hero of the Wizarding World here!"

Harry cringes at the title and shoots a glare at the redhead but it is a lost cause. Huffing indignantly, Harry exhales noisily through his nostrils.

"Bine," Harry surrenders. Ron makes a small cheering noise and removes his hand from Harry's face.

The bartender from before comes with a mug of the disgusting combination and gives Harry a meaningful glance in Ron's direction before returning to his station. Harry shakes his head and sips his drink, hedging that Ron is too drunk to notice anyway.

"Good man!" shouts Ron and smacks Harry in what is supposed to be a friendly gesture on the back. It is only by virtue of his honed seeker and auror's reflexes that Harry manages to replace the mug on the table and catch himself before he lurches forward from the force of a Weasley's strength.

"What are we celebrating?" asks Harry again, cautiously this time.

"We. Are celebrating," says Ron, enunciating each word carefully like he's suddenly forgotten how to speak in the space of two seconds. "My. New. Bachelor-dom."

"What?" Harry says dumbly. Green eyes swivel towards Ron in undisguised alarm. Those eyes widen when Ron flicks a hand at him dismissively and sniggers.

"Yeah, you heard right," says Ron, apparently no longer needing to shape his words carefully. "Lavender left without even so much as a by your leave."

Harry works his jaw but no sounds come out. This leads to more snide sniggering from Ron. Harry tries to look annoyed but frankly can muster nothing much beyond a mild shock.

"She left me a letter!" scoffs Ron, leaving no imagination to what exactly he thinks of that. "I was out one minute to get her something _she_ wanted and next I know, poof! Gone!"

For a long while, the two best friends sit in silence and drink, each wallowing in their own thoughts. Ron is the first one to succumb.

"She thinks I'm with her out of guilt," says Ron. Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Are you?" asks Harry.

"No!" says Ron, a tad too forcefully. "Maybe. A little."

"I should have been there," says Ron, staring unseeing into the depths of his mug. "What we did was important, was... everything. But I should have been there."

"Ron, you can't-"

"I failed," interrupts Ron. "I failed you guys, when I left. I never did apologize for that, did I?" He holds a hand up, cutting Harry off before he can say anything.

"But then I failed her too," continues Ron.

"Ron, it isn't your fault," says Harry softly.

"Yeah, that's what she tries to tell me too," says Ron. "But I can't help what I feel, can I?"

Suddenly Ron snorts and covers his face with both hands. Harry glances sharply at him, eyes narrowed.

"Emotional range of a teaspoon," says Ron, snorting again. "Wish it stayed that way."

"Yeah, you've upgraded all the way to tablespoon now," says Harry while taking another foul sip. Ron chuckles weakly and throws Harry a grateful look.

Ron wets his finger in the concoction and rims the lip of the mug slowly, eyes tracking the movement.

"All I want is to keep her safe," says Ron. "And now I can't even do that."

Harry can say nothing to that so he clinks his mug against Ron's and quietly signals the bartender to bring them more drinks.

* * *

 **A/N: I've said my peace in yesterday's update, so there's only one thing left: good reading and as always, be kind to authors. Leave us a review, even a simple 'I like it!' will brighten any author's day.**

 **P/s: I'm pimping out one of my older fics, a Dramione one-shot titled Strings on Us. It's very dear to my heart and I'd love it if more people would read that and leave their thoughts on it.**


	6. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 5

**A/N: The prequel, Dying of the Light, will be updated tomorrow. **

* * *

Draco learns not to panic when he realises he is, once again, alone.

The first time Granger leaves his side since they've been brought together in this strange new world is on that night when the hallucinations start and he is devolved into a shaking, jerking heap at her feet. He damn near tears the house down, looking for her, convinced that she has lulled him to sleep only to leave him to fend for himself.

Once upon a time Draco would have laughed himself silly to think of the Gryffindor princess capable of abandoning anyone in need — it's clearly the reason why she sticks with those two dunderheads — but these days, he isn't so sure.

Draco despises his reliance on her but the trembling has not gone away, he doesn't really know where this 'safe haven' is located and with his magic at near squib levels, Draco is feeling more than a tad helpless. Not that he admitted the last to Granger before her disappearing act. Despite their brief tender moment, he isn't sure where they stand and it's prudent to not provide extra ammunition to friends, much less enemies turn inexplicable companions. And so he lashes out, alone, futilely, in the house, cursing her loudly for every passing second that she is gone.

When she finally reappears at the front door, mouth red, eyebrows raised unamusedly and frowning like a school teacher who has just caught her favourite student breaking every rule in the book, Draco, at least, has the decency to look ashamed.

That, however, doesn't appease her and she forcefully flings a paper wrapped package at him as she pulls out her wand and fixes the damage he has wrought, all the while muttering colourful expletives that would make a sailor blush between every spell.

Draco is sufficiently cowed when he unwraps the package and finds meat — edible, delectable — lying innocently in it. It seems that she has even gone out of her way to deliberately butcher it so he is spared the horror — indignity — of chewing on an arm or more likely, judging from the amount of meat, a leg.

He mumbles apologies at her back but she remains steadfastly angered and refuses to even glance in his direction for the rest of the night. It isn't until he is overcome by a second bout of hallucinations followed by another fit that her cold demeanour thaws out and he is left at the mercy of her compassion.

The very next night, she is gone again, but this time, he awakes to a note stuck to his forehead with a charm. On it, Granger has written, briefly, that she will be back. It calms him enough, though he does keep the note clutched too tightly in his palm, nails biting into the skin, until she returns.

She always comes back and he is sure that this time, it is no different.

It has only been a few days since the start of it, but it hasn't exactly been easy, even if Granger insists that the recovery process seems to be easier and faster for him than for others due to his condition. He bites back the instinct to retort scathingly about the non-existent others to compare to and instead asks her to clarify what she meant by his condition.

"Ghoul," she says cryptically and leaves it at that. Draco isn't sure what he's expecting, but it certainly isn't that.

Ghouls are ugly, ogre-like creatures that lurk in attics and barns. They are known to be mostly harmless and dim-witted. In fact, he's quite sure the Ministry has a task force to remove these nuisances, something akin to a pest control department. Draco could concede to being a pest, especially in his younger years, but he certainly does not resemble anything remotely ogre-like. He couldn't really claim either, for all intents and purposes, to be especially dim, and harmless is about the last thing anybody would use to describe him. Try as he might though, no amount of pestering, pouting or creative pressuring could get her to elaborate further beyond the one word and she'd always just twist the subject back to his recovery and them putting their energies into that first.

By now the quivering in his hands has reduced to a near untraceable tremor and he has had enough of Granger treading on eggshells around the subject, using his affliction as an excuse to avoid telling him what he wants to know. This will be the last night that Granger ventures out alone, of that he will make sure.

Draco is reminded of a dog faithfully awaiting its master's return as he stands by the door, staring at the knob, willing it to turn, but the comparison is trivial and meaningless and he dismisses it as soon as it comes to mind.

Still, the soaring elation that he feels when the knob finally does turn makes him cringe and he tampers it down with affected annoyance instead.

"Granger," he says before the door even swings open to reveal the woman in question.

A wary look immediately flashes across her face and Draco has to reign in the almost instinctive sneer lest he pushes her to be any less malleable to his desires. Granger grunts in an unladylike fashion and starts shedding her coat with one hand as she none-too-gently shoves an all too familiar looking package into his arms with the other.

It is almost second nature now the way he deftly puts the package on the floor and straightens to grasp her chin to pull her face upwards to him so he can scrub at the ring of red around her mouth with a readied damp cloth.

"Granger, I'm tired of staying at home," he rushes out while he has her unable to speak, ignoring the way her eyes widen ever so slightly at the last word. "While you go out — alone, I might add, do you know how dangerous it is? — and bring home the metaphorical bacon. I'm feeling better, the shaking's almost gone, there are no more bugs and I don't even smell terrible anymore."

"Dangerous?" she manages to eke out in between his vigorous rubbing. Draco is sure that had she had full reign on the lower half of her face, there'd be an obnoxiously amused grin plastered right there. He tightens his grip on her and narrows grey eyes at her.

"Don't be difficult," he says. Something that may have been a laugh sounds from her throat. "And you still owe me an explanation — a _proper_ explanation."

She looks up at him then with an unfathomable expression in her brown eyes. Draco doesn't know what she is searching for, but he meets her gaze right on, unwavering.

For a while, they just stand there, looking at each other — her with her hand somehow having found its way onto his chest and bunching the fabric there and him with one arm still bent, holding her head in place, cloth half raised between them.

"Please," Draco whispers and Granger shudders like a ghost has just passed through her.

She is the first to break away, bending down to pick up the forgotten package and shoving it into his grasp once more.

"Don't waste food, Malfoy," she says. "I worked hard on it." Disappointment begins to fill him and he stares down bitterly at the unassuming wrapping.

"It's Monday tomorrow," she continues and Draco's head jerks up as he blinks owlishly at her. She smiles at him — tiny and uncertain. "Monday's a good night for going out."

Draco has not once thanked her, and he will not break tradition now, but he does slip his hand into hers and hopes that is enough.

* * *

The place Granger brings him to is so typical of her, Draco can't help but snort loudly when the sign comes into view. Granger merely rolls her eyes at him and shoves him playfully as they trundle up the steps of the British Library.

"You wanted an explanation," Granger says. "And they're open relatively late."

Draco pauses mid-step. Nearby, a street lamp flickers sporadically, casting his face into periodic shadows.

"Do you miss the sun?" he asks. Her left foot lands on the next step a second too late. She gives no sign of stopping and Draco quickens his pace to catch up to her. The wind picks up then, blowing her hair forwards so it obscures most of her face from him.

"Do you miss the taste of proper food?" she shoots back while struggling to gather the mass of her hair into a semi-respectable bun to keep it from blocking her vision.

"Touché," he says and watches her wrestle for a while before taking pity on her and reaches beside him to pluck the hair tie from her fingers.

Granger gives him a glare, which is rendered mostly ineffective thanks to the wind whipping the strands into her line of sight, and Draco motions for her to turn around. She crosses her arms and huffs noisily but obliges his request nonetheless.

"Why did you have to bring me here?" asks Draco conversationally. Granger cranes her neck back and shoots him an incredulous look. Draco makes a tsking noise and adjusts her head back.

"I meant that you could have just told me," says Draco. "Swot that you are, you've already figured out what I am."

"Didn't think you'd trust my word on it," she shrugs. When Draco remains quiet, she continues, "Besides, I needed to make sure of it myself."

"All done," announces Draco as he takes a step back to admire his handiwork. Granger runs a hand down the back of her head; fingers ghosting over the tight French braid, her mouth forming a tiny 'o' shape in amazement.

"Where did you learn to do this?" she asks. Draco reaches forward and flicks the end of the braid.

"My mother," he answers simply and resumes walking towards the library entrance. Granger makes to follow him, half a step behind.

The inside of the library is warm, leaving no doubt that the internal heating — rare in British buildings — has been cranked up to combat the chilly autumn air. Neither Granger nor Draco bothers with removing their coats.

Granger gives the librarian at the desk a friendly wave which the old lady returns. Draco wonders if Granger has a designated personal nook here too, just like she did back in Hogwarts, just like he has back in the library at the Manor.

Granger strides slightly ahead of him, weaving in and out between shelves while humming a jaunty tune Draco doesn't recognise. Draco sticks his hands into his pockets, trailing behind her and absently palms his wand — useless as it is, he can't bring himself to leave the thing at home, feeling woefully incomplete without it.

They come to a stop at the Mythology section. She pulls out a few books — her practiced movements too fast for him to catch the titles — and moves to sit at a table, patting the chair next to her in invitation as she flips open the books, eyes scanning through them rapidly.

Draco watches in fascination as her hand flies through the pages, almost a blur, while she mumbles quietly to herself until finally her eyes arrest on a page and brighten. She turns those bright eyes to Draco and he swallows, suddenly nervous.

Her index finger jabs a passage in triumph and she pushes the first book to him, already starting on the second one. Draco hesitantly pulls the book nearer to him and begins to read.

 **\- living off the flesh of the dead - feast on human flesh - cannibalistic - opening up graves - devouring corpses - hunt young children - curse -**

"It's not entirely accurate," Granger says and Draco startles, pushing the pile of books away from him. He doesn't know when Granger managed to amass so many of the damn things around him but Draco no longer wants to read anymore. "But if the glove fits..." she trails off, ducking behind another thickset, leather-bound volume.

"W-What?" croaks Draco.

"According to the original — the Arabic — myth, ghouls are demonic shape shifters," she says. "Though their... hooves, remain unchanged throughout their forms."

"O-Oh," he says.

"Unless you're wearing socks over these hooves," she laughs softly. "Human feet like socks."

"Hah," he says weakly.

"Malfoy," she says and a petite hand comes over his. It seems odd that she should be that warm. "Are you alright?"

Draco nods limply but she's already putting the books away and pulling him out of his seat and ushering him into the cold outside.

* * *

"Is this bloke botherin' ya?"

Draco watches as the man insinuates himself into the one-sided conversation Granger is having with her male companion. Granger flicks a disinterested eye at the both of them and continues sipping at her lager, shrugging delicately.

"The lady ain't keen, so why don't you piss off, mate," he continues. The two men posture at each other for a moment but it comes to a swift end when it is made obvious that the later male has the clear advantage of being bigger, taller and far more muscular. The previous man slinks away meekly with his drink, re-joining his friends and lamenting loudly about cockteasers and arseholes.

Draco snorts and burrows his head further into his upturned collar, yanking the hat covering his conspicuous platinum hair down further before turning his attention back to Granger and the man who is now aggressively flirting with her.

Draco can't fathom how these muggles cannot sense the danger that Hermione Granger exudes.

There are some people whom one can look at and instantly get the impression that they have bodies buried in their wine cellar. In Granger's honey brown eyes; Draco can see a veritable graveyard.

He wonders what the muggle sees. Granger dressed in some flimsy nightwear and lounging seductively on his bed probably.

The man leans down and whispers into Granger's ears. A coy smile comes over her painted lips and she bats her eyelashes at him prettily. She nods once, twice, and the man smirks triumphantly. He reaches down to pull her chair out for her while offering one arm out to her.

What a gentleman, Draco thinks as the man grins toothily when Granger links her arm through his. All the better to eat you with, my dear.

Draco's eyes trail them as the couple make their way through the crowd and out the back door. Draco knows he isn't imagining the exaggerated sway of her hips or the man's hand over her bum. He waits till they have exit the pub before he makes his way to her vacated seat and picks up her abandoned coat, draping it casually over one arm and then sauntering out to crash their little party.

A sense of déjà vu hits him when he rounds the corner into the deeper, darker recess of the alley. Granger has her legs wrapped around the man's waist and a palm firmly latched onto his mouth, muffling any sound that may come out from it.

This scene feels more intimate somehow — perhaps it is because Granger has not broken eye contact with him since he's stepped into the area, or maybe it is Granger's close position with the man. Whatever it is, it has Draco swallowing with a feeling he can't yet describe.

The man gurgles, loud enough that Draco can hear it even through Granger's makeshift muffle. He breaks his gaze away as Granger shifts and allows the man to slip through between her legs.

"You're blushing, Malfoy," she teases. Draco clears his throat a wee too harshly.

"It's hot," he says, waving vaguely in an attempt to appear dismissive.

"Sure," she agrees and dumps the man inelegantly at his feet. Draco stares as the corpse — human, muggle — flops up once like a boneless fish. Draco closes his eyes — the image is carved into the insides of his eyelids — and shakes his head. The spoils that she has brought home these past few days aren't enough to prepare him for this.

"No?" she questions, deep set lines appearing between her brows. "You were rather pale earlier."

Draco shakes his head again. The wary worry doesn't leave Granger's expression but she says no more and shrugs, then pivots on her heel and makes to leave.

"This is unlike you, Granger," Draco says before he can stop himself.

She pauses abruptly. "What do you mean?"

"Have you always been this sloppy? Did you just leave them here before I arrived?" he demands.

"You don't know me, Malfoy. Nothing I am now is like who I was," she says, bristling. Draco can't keep up with her ever-flipping moods or his own, for that matter. "The fact that I'm standing here right next to you without tearing your throat out is testament to that."

"What makes you think I'll stop you?" Draco says quietly, feeling all the fight leave him.

"There are easier ways to leave," she says with a hard edge to her voice. Draco looks at her and she nudges the forgotten body toward him with her foot, arms crossed as if in challenge.

Draco stares — he can't help it, not yet, maybe soon — but slowly he bends down and picks up the body by its head. It is surprisingly light. He brings it up to eye level and forces himself to gaze right into its glassy, vacant, oculi. Then he shifts the head to the side and sinks his teeth into its fleshy cheek.

They were right — the cheek _is_ the best part.

* * *

 **A/N: I couldn't resist posting this update a day earlier. So, some fic recommendations, that if you're not reading by now, you really should be:**

 **1\. Devil, Tower, Star by I'm All Teeth**

 **2\. Rebuilding by Colubrina**

 **3\. He Dreams He's Awake by MissiAmphetamine**

 **4\. The Last Cell on the Left by murtagh799**

 **I also highly recommend reading any of their other works.**

 **As always, be kind to authors. Know that we don't get any compensation for doing this other than reviews. It does warm our cold, black hearts to see that someone likes our works. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten any author's day.**


	7. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 6

**A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated tomorrow.**

* * *

Monday can't come soon enough and Harry is twitching from all the eagerness to go back to work, _actual_ work, if he gets his way.

He is in a similar position as the last time, except that now it's not Kingsley's office that he's standing in front of, it's Dawlish's. Kingsley, Harry deduces, will only send him back with another patronizing admonishment to go to sleep. Dawlish, on the other hand, has work that needs being done and staff shortage is enough of an issue to not be relegating aurors to temporary suspension or desk duties all the time.

Harry knocks and in his impatience, keeps up the stream of knocking until he can hear swearing growing gradually louder from within. Even then, he doesn't stop.

"STOP THAT INFERNAL RACKET AND GET THE FUCK IN HERE," comes a bellowing voice inside. Perhaps, Harry thinks, he's gone a little too far, but there's work to be done and this is no time to be subtle or meek. Turning the knob, Harry swings the door open and steps in boldly.

"Merlin's saggy bollocks, Potter," Dawlish groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and rubbing his temple with the other. A quill lays forgotten on his desk, dripping ink onto the parchments below. "Can't you knock once? Like a normal person?"

"I'll try next time, sir," says Harry cheerily. "But uh... your quill..." he says and points gingerly at the desk.

Dawlish glares at Harry before casting an irritated glance in the direction Harry is pointing.

"Shit!" exclaims Dawlish, hurriedly picking up the quill to avoid more dripping. But the damage has been done and the report below is now an unreadable, sopping, mess of black. "Buggering hell," Dawlish moans.

"Allow me, sir," Harry says and pulls out his wand, pointing it at the clump in Dawlish's hands. "Tergeo!" Harry grins satisfactorily as the ink siphons off the page, leaving behind clear, written words.

"Wipe that smug grin off your face, Potter," says Dawlish testily. "It's your fault in the first place. You and your damn knocking."

"Sorry, sir. Next time, sir," chimes Harry, prompting a scowl out of Dawlish.

"You didn't come here to discuss your knocking habits," grunts Dawlish. "So spit it out, Potter."

Harry shifts into a more formal stand, straightening his spine, clasping his hands behind his back and keeping his eyes staring straight ahead.

"Sir, I'm ready," says Harry, his tone carefully neutral. Dawlish steeples his hands together and levels a cool gaze at Harry.

"Ready for what?" says Dawlish. "You have to be more specific, Potter."

"Sir, put me on a case," Harry soldiers on. "I can handle it."

"If you're requesting to be put on Granger's case," Dawlish frowns. "There is a reason I don't put aurors with personal connections on a case, Potter."

"I understand that, sir," says Harry, fists flexing unconsciously behind him. "Which is why I'm not asking to be put on that case, sir. Just any case."

"Kingsley is concerned-"

"With all due respect, Kingsley has been far too much away from the Auror department," says Harry, reciting word for word his rehearsed argument. "He's forgotten the kind of workload we can get here, sir."

"It doesn't mean I'm willing to sacrifice the health of my subordinates," counters Dawlish. "I mean, Weasley-"

"I am not Ron, sir," Harry interrupts curtly. "I can handle it." At that, Harry looks down straight into Dawlish's eyes. It looks like a gesture of challenge, but to Harry, it feels more like a silent plea.

Dawlish meets Harry's gaze, holding it for a while, then he sighs and pulls out a drawer. He rummages in it for a bit before retrieving a packet of fags. He opens the cover, thwacks the bottom against the side of the table and offers one to Harry.

"I don't smoke, sir," Harry says, shaking his head lightly.

"Good, good man," says Dawlish absently as he uses his wand as a lighter and takes a deep pull on the cigarette. "Nasty habit, but I can't shake it off. Tis' my weakness." The smoke plume from the lighted end curls upwards slowly.

"Chances are higher the job will kill us first, sir," says Harry, linking his fingers together to curb the urge to wave away the smoke from his face.

"Quite right," says Dawlish before taking another deep inhale and then exhaling it upwards where it disperses gently against the ceiling. Silence falls and only the faint sizzling sound of a burning cigarette can be heard.

Eventually, Dawlish reaches into the open drawer and withdraws a file. He flings it so it lands on the desk, exactly in front of where Harry is standing.

"You'll have to liaise with the Muggle Met Police," says Dawlish, tapping on the cigarette and watching the ashes fall, uncaring of where it lands. "The others don't really know how to deal with Muggles. Reckons they're a different species or something." Dawlish shakes his head at this, muttering something that sounds like 'nonsense' and 'other things to worry about' under his breath.

"You won't regret this, sir," says Harry, holding the folder close to his body, like it'd disappear if he didn't keep such a tight hold on it.

"Fine, but if I see anything remotely Weasley-like, then I'm taking you off the case, Potter," warns Dawlish though the admonishment has no real bite to it.

Harry grins and gives him a mock salute. "I will not disappoint you, sir," he says before closing the door gently behind him.

* * *

When Ron arrives, carrying a packed lunch consisting of three sandwiches — one for Harry, two for himself — expecting to see Harry at his desk, he is greeted by the sight of an empty chair. Figuring that there's still time before lunch, Ron makes himself comfortable and waits for Harry to return.

Twenty minutes pass and still no sign of Harry, he figures it's a tad too long of a toilet break and decides to go seek the man out. A search of the toilets reveals no Harry — embarrassingly long poos are more common than one might think — and so Ron makes a trek past the various meeting rooms in the Auror office, thinking perhaps that he may have been caught up in a meeting. But when that turns up no one at all, Ron sprints to the break room where the coffee and tea maker are kept.

His surprise burst through the door uncovers only two startled aurors — drinks thankfully not spilled — whose faces Ron has trouble placing to names.

"Where is Harry? Harry Potter?" asks Ron, a little bit flustered from all that running. He thinks that it is perhaps time for him to go back to training.

"Are you allowed in here?" one of them asks, an indignant look on his face. The other crosses his arms as if to say 'well?'

Ron supposes he knows now why he has no memory of these two.

"I worked- work here," says Ron, placing his fists on his hips in an imitation of an intimidating gesture he's seen his mum do. "I'm just on long term leave at the moment, and I've come to pick something up from the office." The half lie comes out so smoothly Ron feels like he ought to give himself a pat on the back for it.

Ron merely raises a contemptuous eyebrow as they share an uncertain glance between them. They deflate visibly and Ron silently thanks Merlin for women and their penchant for utilizing the 'look' on hapless men like him.

"Harry's out," one of them says. "On a case," the other chimes in.

 _Oh_ , thinks Ron and tries not to shrink into himself. He clears his throat awkwardly and rubs a hand on the back of his neck.

"Any idea when he'll be back?" asks Ron.

"None whatsoever," says one of them while the other just gives an exaggerated shrug.

"I suppose I'll just... walk around till he returns," Ron says lamely and they nod, turning to each other.

"Haven't got anything to do anyway..." That bit he mumbles mostly to himself since the two have lost interest in him and have started conversing between themselves.

Unsure of when Harry will be back and feeling a little untethered, Ron wanders the Auror office aimlessly. Various colleagues — ex? Current? Status yet to be confirmed? — pass him by; some give him weird looks, some others, curt nods of acknowledgement. The natural Weasley reaction to embarrassment is anger, as it is to most unpleasant emotions. The adage of red heads with fiery tempers can be used to describe the Weasleys to a T and so to avoid an ugly incident — possibly prolonging his suspension — Ron ducks into the four person office he used to share with Harry and two others.

The two aurors in there, Thompson and Finch, barely look up when Ron enters, already far too used to his presence lurking around Harry's desk. Ron slumps bonelessly into Harry's chair, flipping disinterestedly through several neatly stacked folders on the desk. In their corner, Thompson and Finch discuss a recent job that Ron pays no mind to.

Just as the clock hand moves to one o'clock, Ron's stomach growls. It is so loud in fact that Thompson and Finch stop their discussion to stare at him — one in amusement, the other in fascination laced with thinly veiled disgust.

"It wants what it wants," says Ron, utterly unapologetic, and pulls out a cheese and onion sandwich from the packed lunch.

"Anyway," says Finch, deftly shielding his nose and shaking his head at Ron's choice of sandwich filling. "As I was saying, no one's seen the Malfoys."

"Didn't they become some sort of recluse after the war?" asks Thompson. "Fancy that, it's like they know what shame is." Finch snorts derisively at that.

"Yeah, but usually the wife will put in an appearance once a month in Twilfitt and Tattings, to remind the common rabble that they still matter, probably," Finch replies. "She hasn't done that in months."

"And how in Circe and Morgana's name do you know that?" exclaims Thompson.

"Mothers and wives gossip you know," mumbles Finch as a redness starts to steadily climb up his neck.

"Sure," says Thompson, giving the other man a cool look while dragging out the 'u' in the word.

"The point is," says Finch, flushing bright now. "The point _is_ ," he repeats forcefully, "that they're gone."

"Impossible. They're too high profile," counters Thompson, pondering. "If they try to leave the country, we'll know. What about the son?"

"Last anyone's seen him was more than a few months ago. He got caught knicking a bottle in Knockturn," says Finch. "You know how it is. Knockturn minds its own, we mind our own. But it seems he disappeared soon after that too."

"Anyway, rumour has it that he was..." Finch trails off and mimes chugging a bottle.

"Hah!" scoffs Thompson. "They should have locked him up and throw away the key. I don't understand why the Granger girl testified for him."

"Maybe she had the hots for him? You remember how school was," says Finch, leering and miming a vulgar motion with two fingers.

The two men laugh and chatter on. Had they paid any mind to Ron Weasley, they would have seen the myriad of thoughts and emotions that sped through his mind, displayed clearly on his face. The cheese and onion sandwich lies forgotten on the wax paper wrapping.

* * *

Harry ends up having to venture out to Muggle London to find a payphone in order to contact his muggle liaison. This, Harry thinks wryly, is apparently what Muggle Studies prepares you for, not that he ever bothered attending those classes himself. Eleven years living with some of the worst muggles he knows is enough to convert anyone away from that life.

Still, it did shape him to be who he is and did provide the unexpected boon now of actually knowing what to do. Harry can't exactly begrudge that, although, he might have had an easier time of it if he had made a habit of carrying around some English Sterling Pounds. If only he'd kept the fifty pence piece Aunt Petunia gave him for Christmas all those years ago — it'd have come in handy right about now.

One phone call later and they've arranged to meet at St. James Park, just some ways away from the New Scotland Yard. Apparently there's a meeting spot in the park that has the 'perfect view of Buckingham Palace' with conveniently placed benches and a vendor's cart nearby. Harry, who has barely step foot in the park, or any muggle park for that matter, figures that he will just have to take his liaison's word for it.

Despite the many people milling about the area, Harry has no trouble picking the man out. There is an air that all law enforcers seem to carry about them, himself included, and even without that, Harry can instantly recognise the distinctive slump to the man's shoulders from miles away. It's a slump that speaks of having been spat on for just doing his job, of spending many a nights away from the family, breaking up some drunken fight or domestic dispute and possibly getting shived in the process. Dawlish has that slump. Sometimes, so does Kingsley.

"Basil Turner," says the man, who as it turns out, has no trouble picking Harry out either. He strides forwards with great big steps, a hand held out as he approaches Harry. "Detective, homicide."

"Harry Potter," Harry says, accepting the man's hand. Basil has a good handshake, firm but not tight, warm without being sweaty, neither domineering nor submissive. "Auror, Magical Law Enforcement."

Basil nods like he's heard it before. Harry must have looked perplexed because Basil follows by saying, "Not everyone in the office has access to that information, of course." He taps his nose meaningfully.

"I'm one of the lucky ones," Basil says, but the way the word 'lucky' rolls off his tongue gives Harry the impression that it is not that at all.

"Quite a thing, isn't it?" says Harry. "Discovering that magic is real?"

"Yeah, you don't get that every day," says Basil, eyes averting away to the ground for a second before returning to Harry's face.

"So, what's your story? How'd you get saddled with this?" asks Basil while gesturing between them.

"What makes you say that?" Harry asks even as the conversation with Dawlish replays in his head.

"Well, uh... traditionally, you lot aren't... very keen about working with... _muggles_ ," Basil says awkwardly and Harry can't quite pretend to not have noticed the way Basil cringes slightly with the last word — the way he's seen Hermione does whenever she uses the word 'mudblood' to describe herself, scathingly or not.

"I... My aunt and uncle are... normal. I mean, like you. They have no magic. My cousin, as well," Harry says, aware that he's rambling slightly but unable to stop. "I lived with them before I knew... magic is real."

Basil looks at him sympathetically and Harry can't shake away the thought that he doesn't deserve that look from Basil.

"Must have been difficult, not knowing why some things are happening to you," Basil says. "I imagine it's quite a relief."

Harry wonders who is it that Basil knew and if that person is still alive somewhere.

"You could say that," Harry says. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you...?"

"Get this?" asks Basil and Harry nods. "Like I said, lucky few. Normally, it's me partner that does this, but well, the mandatory counselling sessions get in the way now."

"Counselling?" asks Harry, baffled. Basil gives him a funny look.

"Yeah, the job. Sometimes it turns people funny," says Basil. "Don't you have that? I mean it's practically the same job, just with well, more magic, no?"

Harry has nothing to say to that so he just shrugs, hoping it doesn't come off as helpless as he feels.

"Turns out my partner had a bit of PTSD from a previous case, and his first reaction is to lash out, violently," Basil says, averting his gaze to the side again. "Bollocksed it right up, he did."

It sounds far too familiar and Harry shifts uncomfortably, nodding numbly.

"Right, look at me, yakking on like some pepperpot," says Basil, making a show of dusting imaginary lint off the shoulders of his trench coat. "I promised you a scenic spot, didn't I?"

Without further ado, Basil turns and walks in a different direction, nattering to himself about the hazard that is pigeons as one flies dangerously close to him. Harry isn't sure if it's Basil's detective instinct or just an innate ability to sense the discomfort, regardless of the real reason, Harry feels a rush of gratitude towards the other man.

Sometime later, Harry has to admit that the spot really is perfect and that the ice cream, whether it's due to the scenery or the actual taste, has Fortescue's beat.

* * *

 **A/N: Class has started for 2 weeks now and I've fallen behind on the chapters. Was supposed to have them done last week, and I'm still struggling to finish one. So fair warning, as I've said before the weekly updates is no guarantee, but I'll try my best.**

 **Seriously though, guys, I'm posting this right after I finished my assignment (3 classes worth, I might add. I've forgotten how it's like to be a student. I rather be working again. The mere thought of exams is filling me with dread), so you know, review. After all, none of us get any sort of compensation and reviews really do help keep the words flowing. (It's the encouragement and boost of confidence that does it.)**


	8. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 7

**A/N: Dying of the Light is also updated today.**

* * *

It's funny how easily they've come to form a routine between the two of them in the time that they've come together, even in the face of their once animosity. Not that either of them ever brings the past up. There simply is no point in doing that. Who they were have little bearing on whoever — whatever — they are now.

Where once it is the cause for a war, prejudice against blood impurity seems more like an old inside joke now in light of the things that they have done these days. After all, it's a tad hypocritical to be harping on blood purity when said blood — and the accompanying pound of flesh — are the only things one can subsist on.

Pureblood, mudblood, muggle blood — they all taste the same.

What Draco's more interested in finding out is whether or not female flesh has a different taste from male flesh. Although judging by the measure of Granger's obstinance, he's liable to never find out.

"But why?" Draco whines, not caring in the slightest that he's one foot stamping away from sounding like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

"Because I'm the one who eats first — and thus seduces — and I simply have no desire for women," Granger says matter-of-factly, barely paying him any attention as she skims and flicks through a newspaper that they've picked up the night before.

"Can't you pretend? It's for the greater good," persuades Draco.

"It's not as easy as that, _Draco_ ," hissing his given name the only way she can — like she's spitting venom. She lowers the paper and narrows her eyes at him.

"Then let me do it," says Draco. Granger snorts, sounding much like a bull does when it's preparing to charge. Although Draco does refrain from telling her so; regrowing parts, he has find out, can be a right pain up the arse. Speaking figuratively, of course.

"No," she answers instantly.

"But whyyy?" Draco whines, for the second time.

"Just, no," she asserts in a tone that brooks no further argument. Unfortunately for her, being brought up in the kind of household that he was in has given him a case of selective hearing and so it does not succeed in shutting him up.

"If I didn't know better I'd say it's the jealousy speaking," he mumbles but not quite soft enough to keep her from overhearing.

"Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy," she scowls, folding the paper with more force than is necessary, her cheeks staining red, likely from anger, if the mauled paper is any indicator. "What do I care if you want to chomp on some two-bit slag? I'd just really rather not have to go after someone else because the blood disagrees with me when we've already established that you're perfectly fine with eating men."

Draco flinches like she's just thrown scalding water at him.

"You didn't have to phrase it quite like that," he sulks.

"There is nothing wrong with being gay," she says hotly. Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes at her. "It's not-"

"It's not a choice, I know, I know," he interrupts, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. "Trust me, I do. I was in an all-boys dorm for the better part of seven years." Granger harrumphs and crosses her arms in front of her chest, jaw jutting out stubbornly but doesn't comment on the matter any further.

"Look, Granger. All I'm saying is that, if we don't try, then we'll never know," Draco continues. "What if you like it? What if it'll be the best thing you ever ate and you missed out just because you didn't want to try new things?"

"Live a little, eh?" Draco jokes. Granger gives him a deadpan look that can only translate to 'Really?'

"Not my finest moment," Draco admits sheepishly. "So... What do you say?" He leaves the question hanging in the air while he summons the most pleading look he can muster and plasters it on his face while steadfastly refusing to look away from her.

For each continued silent second, Draco feels his chances slipping away. Gradually, the hope begins to recede and disappointment starts to replace it.

Finally, she unfolds her arms, stands up and steps far inside his personal bubble. Sensing a challenge, Draco stands his ground and doesn't back away.

"Fine. But you better not turn out to be rubbish at seduction," she says while punctuating her words with a poking finger to his chest. "Or I'm stepping in."

* * *

Annoyingly enough, he turns out to be rather good at it.

Though if she were asked, Hermione would say that he's trying too hard. There is no reason to lay it on that thick; there is a thin line between charming and creepy and Malfoy walked that line. It was evident to anyone with eyes that the woman was smitten right from the start. The minute he'd walked into the picture, she had looked at him like she was a woman dying of thirst and he was her tall drink of water. Such desperation, Hermione thought tartly, was unbecoming.

So no, the seduction isn't the problem — _that_ was performed to near perfection. It was the subduing that he rather failed at, unhelped, no doubt, by his inability to perform any actual magic.

Now _that_ was a confession that was weeks in the making. Even then, it was a fluke more than any real intention on his part to tell her.

She'd had some trouble with one of her men who'd somehow been able to resist her and even repel her while brandishing a rosary.

It wasn't, she knew, an issue of religion.

They'd been people who realised what she was and tried that before — crucifixes, the star of David, a Quran and oddly enough, an L. Ron Hubbard book that one time. It had not turned out well for them and she'd never been particularly religious anyway. But this time, it had worked for this man and she was, then, in a right pickle, embarrassingly hissing at him from a distance like a cliché.

He was untouchable, even to her magic, it seemed.

Malfoy was nearby, as he always was. She'd been mildly surprised that he'd been able to lurk that well — he's certainly never shown any inclination towards sneakiness or subtlety in school — even despite that distinctive hair and pale, pale skin.

He'd jump out from the shadows, coming to her rescue like the proverbial knight in shining armour. But instead of whipping out his wand and performing a spell like a normal wizard, he'd come at the man with a switchblade that he'd procure from Merlin knows where, stabbing at the man wildly until he was quite assuredly dead.

She'd been shocked, then grateful, then shocked again, then angry and then she'd been in his face about acting like a muggle thug and wasting precious food when he'd cracked and accidentally blurted out that he's a squib.

Her initial reaction was to rebuke the ludicrousness of that statement. But he'd look so increasingly miserable halfway through her diatribe that she'd trailed off and ask him if it was true. He'd kindly demonstrated. It was fascinating and yet oddly disturbing. She'd put out theories — his ghoul state being her number one hypothesis — and wanted to keep on experimenting, but the pinched look on his face stopped her short and she hadn't brought it up since.

It only occurred to her much later what hell it must be for someone who's known and practiced wizardry his entire life to suddenly lose his magic under circumstances that are out of his control.

As much as she didn't want to, Hermione has to concede grudgingly that his failure at properly subduing the woman is likely due to the lack of practice on Malfoy's part, and that is mostly her fault since she never did give him a chance to do any such thing. The knowledge only adds to her annoyance and so by the end of the whole cat and mouse game, she's feeling quite irritated.

The woman, to her credit, gives it all she's got. Sadly, the end, for her, is as they say, inevitable.

Malfoy is doubled up, leaning heavily against the wall and panting from the exertion when Hermione steps out from the shadows.

The woman is splayed at his feet, like a follower lying prostrate at her prophet's feet, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. On the ground near her is a rock that is stained red. The tips of her fingers and nails are painted a crimson that isn't the product of nail polish.

Hermione ignores her and steps over the body to Malfoy. Frowning, she puts a finger beneath his chin and lifts his head up.

Scratches run all along his cheeks and a thin rivulet seeps from the top of his head where his pale hair is fast getting matted up with blood. She absent-mindedly wipes the blood away from his forehead but when she starts to thread her fingers into his hair to feel for the wound he stops her.

"It'll heal," he says and straightens to his full height, effectively preventing her from reaching the top of his head.

"You could have helped," Malfoy says, flicking his eyes towards the woman and back at her, but there is no accusation to his tone. "What happened to stepping in?"

Unable to give him a proper answer, Hermione shrugs and turns towards the fallen woman. Unthinkingly, she sticks the thumb smeared with Malfoy's blood into her mouth and licks it off.

"Tastes good?" he asks and Hermione nods distractedly, bending down to pick up the dead weight. Hermione grunts — the woman is heavier than she looks. Her head flops and lolls to the back uncannily.

"No switchblade?" Hermione inquires while peering at the woman's neck for the perfect bite.

"And receive another lecture?" Malfoy chuckles. "I do have some sense of self-preservation."

"Har har," Hermione mutters sardonically, critically examining the woman by twisting her head this way and that — it is not neat but it's well and truly broken. "Breaking a person's neck is harder than it looks. Especially when said person is aware and fighting you every step of the way."

"What's your point?" Malfoy asks, peering at his pristine nails and pretending to pick dirt out from underneath them.

"Nothing," she says before sinking her fangs into the sweet spot above the jugular vein. A strangled moan escapes her throat as the amrita floods her taste buds.

Surprisingly, Malfoy saves any comments, smug or otherwise, to himself and waits patiently aside.

Hermione drains the body in a matter of minutes. When she finishes, it is like waking up from a haze. She gazes at Malfoy dazedly and he smiles as he puts his arms out to receive the food from her.

Funny, she thinks, how she never noticed the way a smile can change someone's entire countenance. He almost looks beautiful then.

Without a word, she passes the body to him and gives him an awkward, lopsided smile of her own. He chuckles fondly at her and she is almost content to just stand there, gazing at him, until he plunges his long fingers into the right eye socket with a squelching noise that makes Hermione's upper lips curl upwards.

Hermione can't help but stare at his digging fingers as they struggled to retrieve their treasure. She watches, unblinking, as he finally manages to pop the little orb out and starts munching away on it. She — their unfortunate victim — has — had — really lovely hazel eyes. After a while, Malfoy notices her staring and sticks out the hand with the half-eaten eyeball.

"Do you want some?" he asks. Hermione immediately blanches. He spares her a rather pointed look at her little moue of disgust and continues his meal as she turns her back to him and stalks a distance away to leave him to eat alone.

* * *

It is only later, when they are getting ready for bed that Hermione notices the bite.

He'd been changing into his usual sleepwear and she had glance over and seen the unusual swollen patch of red, like a rash, at the juncture between his neck and the start of his shoulder.

"What's that?" Hermione asks, coming right up to him so her nose is almost touching his chest and peers at it.

"It's nothing," he says and steps back slightly, intending to resume pulling the shirt over his head. But before the shirt could come down and obscure Hermione's examination, she darts forward and jabs him right in the middle of that festering, red, patch.

He hisses in pain and she narrows her eyes at him.

"She bit you, didn't she?" She says, her question sounding more like an accusation.

"Yeah," Malfoy replies and tries again to put his shirt on.

"Oh no, you don't," Hermione admonishes. "Accelerated healing or not, the human mouth is filthy. No wonder it's taking this long."

Malfoy doesn't even bother making a single sound of protest when she pulls him along with her into the adjoining bathroom to get the wound cleaned out.

Prior to this, Hermione has not looked too closely at his body having had no desire nor want to do so. Now that she's busy tending to his shoulder, it is her first time seeing the network of fine criss-crossing scars that covers almost his entire torso.

"You still have yours?" she asks, forgetting the wound and tracing the pads of her finger tips over the raised skin. He looks at her, astonished, from the question or from the envy that she can't quite hide, she doesn't know.

"You don't?" he questions. She bites her lips and doesn't answer, only continuing with her exploration of his scars. She runs her hands over the ridged expanse of his chest, feeling the puckered skin under her touch and shivers slightly.

"Are these from sixth year?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "No. The one from Potter..." he gently takes her left hand and guides it to a round, flat scar, like someone has run him through with a stick, just inches above his heart. "It's this one."

"And the rest?"

"I've collected them, over the years," he says vaguely.

"This many?" she asks quietly. He shrugs but says no more.

Her gaze wanders and she catches sight of a trail of fine, off white hairs leading from his abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. Flushing, she hurriedly diverts her gaze to the left and is immediately caught by the Dark Mark, faded but always present. The hand that has been touching the scar from Harry drops to his left forearm and she hesitates, hovering over the brand, as he inhales sharply. He seems to hold his breath as she cautiously lays her palm flat on top of it. His breath gradually releases as she keeps her hand there, unmoving, except to caress her thumb reassuringly against the crook of his elbow.

Where once the Mark would writhe in protest of the presence of such filth, it now lays dormant, dead. Hermione gently squeezes his forearm and he answers with a shaky smile.

Slowly, she extricates her hand and goes to the sleeve of her own left arm. Hermione folds the sleeve back methodically, segment by segment, ensuring that each crease is neat before pushing it back further up until it reaches just beyond her elbow. Swallowing unconsciously, she raises her arm between them, turning to expose the inner forearm, so he can look upon the smoothness of the skin there.

"I don't have any," she says, giving him his answer at last. "Not even the one I got when I was a child due to a biking accident." As she says that, her other hand comes up to touch her right temple — it is an automatic gesture for her, whatever imperfection was there is long gone.

"What I would give to get them back," Hermione says, tapping the skin of her forearm. "Even this one."

"Don't," he chokes out, voice sounding strangled. "Don't wish for that back."

Hermione ignores his plea like he hasn't said a word. "And the ones in here," she says and taps — viciously jabs — the side of her head.

"I wasn't well. Not in here," she says rapidly, the need to get the words out _now_ is overwhelming. She needs to say them, needs Malfoy to hear it, before they're lost to her forever. "It put me back together. But it didn't do it right. Now I'm all wrong. And I don't know. _I don't know_ -" she breaks off and buries her face into her hands.

Fat, hot tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes. Hermione screws them shut, keeps her face tucked away into the crook of her palms, but still the tears come, running down her cheeks and she's sobbing and she wants to stop, but she doesn't know how.

" _I don't know who I am._ "

Warm arms encircle her and pull her forward into an equally warm body. She is startled momentarily, hands coming away from her face and her sobs cutting short. But then his hands are tangling themselves into her hair and he's patting her like her father used to whenever she got frightened by the thunder and her sobs are renewed with a vigour.

"Hermione. You're Hermione," he keeps repeating — reassuring — as he tucks her into his lap, keeps his arms tight around her and rocks them both gently till she falls into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

 **A/N: Right, so you can see I've updated both fics today because it's past 12 and thus officially Halloween. Here's to a fairly lonely birthday.**

 **As always, review. It gives me the energy to spend my day writing.**


	9. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 8

**A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated tomorrow. Tomorrow's update will have a little uh... surprise. The NSFW kind. **

* * *

Harry paces in front of the entrance to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, mentally steeling himself. He hasn't step foot into the department since... since months ago and he still isn't sure if he can, but the lack of replies to his inter-departmental messages is hindering his job and he's had quite enough of hiding downstairs.

Stopping in front of the double doors, he takes in a deep breath and pushes them open.

The office is deathly quiet. Stepping into the space is like stepping into a separate dimension where everything is topsy turvy. Harry doesn't know what exactly it is that he's expecting but it certainly isn't this. Even the Department of Mystery is livelier than this.

He suppresses the shudder that threatens to break out and strides purposefully past rows and rows of empty desks and chairs to come to a stop in front of a familiar face.

"Berenice," Harry greets with a nod and a smile.

The petite woman, who has had her head tucked down and was furiously scribbling away in a notebook, startles and jerks her head up. Her eyes widen at the sight of Harry and she sucks in a sharp breath, standing up abruptly, uncaring that her chair tumbles to the ground behind her, to engulf Harry in a tight embrace.

Harry returns the hug just as fiercely. Long moments pass wherein they clutch at each other before Berenice reluctantly loosens her grip on him and takes a step back, roving a critical gaze over Harry.

"Have you been eating, sleeping, well?" clucks Berenice as she smoothes her hands over his shoulders and fussily picks at imaginary lint.

"As well as I can, under the circumstances," Harry replies. Berenice frowns, all too knowingly, but doesn't press the subject any further.

"How's Luna? Little Teddy?" she asks, continuing her line of interrogation.

Harry chuckles.

"Luna's fine. Teddy's growing so fast," Harry says, smiling to himself as he recalls the previous Sunday when he'd had Teddy and Andromeda over for lunch that dragged on to dinner. "He grew an inch since last month. It'll be a matter of time before he's too big for rides."

"Children tend do that," says Berenice, smiling as well. She returns behind her desk, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny, and sits down, assuming the face of an impeccable professional.

"How may I help you, Mr Potter?" she asks pleasantly.

"Is Robbins in?" Harry asks, inclining his head towards the closed door behind Berenice's desk.

"Do you have an appointment?" asks Berenice, grabbing a roll of parchment and running her finger down the laughably short list. She taps the last line and looks up at him expectantly.

"No, I don't," concedes Harry. "If Robbins had bothered to answer my messages then I wouldn't need to be here at all."

"I'm afraid Mr Robbins doesn't entertain visitors without an appointment," says Berenice. Harry's eyes narrows at that, but as she raises her gaze to his then, he catches the glint of mischief that flashes through her baby blues. "But if you insist on going in, then I cannot stop you."

Harry crooks a lopsided grin as she adopts a helpless shrug. "I'm just a lowly secretary. What can I do against a seasoned Auror?" she adds with a listless, defeated sort of tone.

Harry mouths a thanks to Berenice as he walks past her and flings Robbins' door open, letting it hit against the inside wall loudly once, before stepping in and turning to close it with a little more force than in necessary.

"Mr Potter," says an icy voice in greeting. Harry fixes a level expression on his face before turning to look upon the fair paleness that is Gawain Robbins. It is not an exaggeration to say that the man looks like he's capable of glowing in the dark.

"Robbins," acknowledges Harry in a similar fashion.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, Potter?" says Robbins, emphasising the word 'pleasure' in a tone highly suggesting it is anything but.

"You know perfectly well the reason I am here, Robbins," says Harry. "I made sure to flood your room in case you missed the last dozen memos."

An unamused expression pulls at Robbins' face. "There was no need for such childish antics," he says, evident disapproval in the set of his brows.

"If you had bothered to answer any, then I wouldn't have had to resort to such tactics," Harry retorts.

"And if _you_ had bothered to keep up with current affairs, then you would have realised that vampires are no longer in my jurisdiction," Robbins retaliates. "They're nobody's jurisdiction, since they've all up and left the country."

A smile came over Robbins' countenance then and Harry involuntary shivers.

"How can you be so sure?" demands Harry, opting to bang a fist on Robbins' desk instead of putting it where he really wants it: in the middle of Robbins' creepy face.

Robbins gives him an irritated glare and flicks Harry's fist off his desk before buffing the spot with his sleeve.

"We keep track of all registered vampires. They're gone. All of them," Robbins grits out between clenched teeth as he concentrates on wiping imaginary contaminants off his table. "If they re-enter the country, we'd know right away and I'll be there instead of wasting away in this Merlin forsaken Centaur division."

"What about unregistered ones?" asks Harry, frowning thoughtfully at the ink blotter on the side of the table.

"What part of 'unregistered' do you not understand?" taunts Robbins. Harry shoots him a glare and makes a frustrated noise under his breath.

"Then at least give me the list of registered vampires," says Harry, methodically clenching and unclenching his fists as he counts to ten in his head.

"I think not," drawls Robbins and leans back in his chair smugly. "You're a thug, Harry Potter. And seeing as how I'm neither in your department nor actually in charge of vampires, I am not obligated to do anything for you."

"It is vital to a case!" Harry yells in disbelief.

"Not my problem," says Robbins, spreading his arms wide. "Unless you get an official order from above, I don't have to do shite."

Robbins spares Harry a malicious grin before pulling out his wand, causing Harry to tense, and points it to his own throat. "Berenice, would you be so kind as to escort Mr Potter out?"

Even as the door swings open and Berenice comes in to take him by the arm to lead him out of Robbins' office, Harry finds himself still incapable of speech. Berenice escorts him the entire way to the same double doors, holding them open for him even.

When he doesn't move, she pushes him out but before the door fully closes between them, she slips a folded paper into his palm and disappears into that eerie quiet once more.

* * *

Ron stands stoic and tall, a deep crease between his brows as he mutters to himself — the very picture of a man deep in thought. His clothes are rumpled and there's a crusty yellow stain on the front of his jumper from Merlin knows what. His hair, that he runs a hand through again and again, is messier than even Harry's have ever been.

He looks up at the wall, broods for a moment then shakes his head, looking away.

Ron has commandeered one of the walls in the flat he shares — used to, he has to keep reminding himself — with Lavender and has turned it into a makeshift investigation board.

Pictures and clippings from the Daily Prophet have been pinned and taped up all along the wall and over them is an intricate web of strings, linking one point to another.

For a long while, he stays there, unmoving when suddenly he yells and kicks a nearby chair so it topples to the floor, raising a cloud of dust in its wake. A frustrated groan escapes him before he doubles over, coughing and hacking from the dust that he's inhaled.

When it finally ceases, Ron wipes the spittle from the side of his mouth and straightens, swallowing dryly.

He glares at a picture of a young Draco Malfoy — thin and in shackles, just fresh from the war — like it was the cause of his coughing fit. Next to it is a rough cut out photograph of the elder Malfoys, Lucius and Narcissa, from an old spread in Witch Weekly. Lucius sneers down at Ron as he sweeps his gaze over the half of the board dedicated to the life story of the Malfoys.

The other half is a similar shrine to Hermione. One red string connects Hermione to the younger Malfoy.

Ron bites down on his lip, eyes flitting quickly between the two till they blur into one and he roars, ripping the string out. The pins clatter to the ground and rolls underneath the sofa.

He has threatened, coerced, bribed and nothing, he's found nothing, and yet... There is something there, he knows. It's just beyond his reach and if he can only stretch out that much further, he's sure he'll get it.

"There are no such things as coincidences," says Ron. The mantra echoes on his tongue and in his head as he replaces the string, fastening them with new pins.

He runs trembling fingers over Hermione's photo all the while keeping a watchful eye on Malfoy's picture as if expecting it to disappear the minute he turns away.

"There are no such things as coincidences," repeats Ron loudly to himself.

His instincts haven't failed him yet and they won't this time, either.

* * *

Harry leans back on the chair, his stomach pleasantly full and his being thoroughly satiated through the wonders of good food.

"That was lovely, Diane," Harry says, raising a glass of wine to the woman in question as she blushes prettily. From the other end of the table, a deep chuckle comes from Basil as he observes his bashful wife. Beside Harry, Luna gives a soft clap and nods enthusiastically in agreement.

When Harry offers to clean up the dishes, Diane pushes him and Basil out into the living room citing a need for womanly gossip as she pulls Luna, whose eyes have started shining at the thought of chores, into the kitchen with her.

Giving one last exasperated but fond look at the closed door that hides the two women — he still cannot fathom Luna's odd love of housework — Harry and Basil proceed to the study where the files still lie open on Basil's sturdy mahogany desk.

The mirth they had gained from dinner dissipates quickly upon landing eyes on said desk top. The two partners exchange a sombre glance and wordlessly sit themselves down on the chairs around the desk.

Harry fidgets a little, getting himself comfortable in _his_ chair — no one else in the household sits in that chair anymore, he's been told — before turning his attention to the case files. In them are crime scene photos, grainy and blurry, but etched crystal clear into his mind. He's studied them, scrutinised them, committed every single inch to his memory — it is the least he could do.

It didn't take him long to arrive at the conclusion once Basil was done telling and showing him the details just over a month ago.

Vampire, he'd said, and Basil nodded sadly, unsurprised.

Harry had made various sounds of disgust until Basil told him about a case where a human — muggle, though Harry vowed never to use that word in front of Basil again — had killed his victims brutally before draining them of their blood. He'd then kept all their teeth as trophies. The blood, he'd made into blood cakes, and consumed them like one would consume pudding.

Vampires, at least, Basil had said, did it for survival and even then, maybe not strictly so. He'd encountered people in A&E who had been strangely anaemic with only a hazy recollection of the past few hours of their night. What exactly happened to them is speculation, certainly, at best, but Occam's Razor and all that, Basil reasoned.

Harry had quieted after that and, ashamed and slightly disturbed, directed the topic back to their current work.

Now, he hand irons the list Berenice had given him and looks it over again, hunting for any details that he may have missed. The list of names remains unchanged, foreign and strange. He recognises none of them.

"They've all left?" Basil asks, fingers laced together and closed loosely in front of him as he leans against the desk on his elbows.

"Apparently," Harry replies.

"How do they know?"

"We have ways of tracking an individual's signature, like a chip you can put into a pet, except with magic," Harry explains. "It can work like a GPS."

Basil nods, one hand going up to stroke his salt and pepper beard. "How long?"

"Months," Harry says, the slightest hint of frustration colouring his tone. "They left just shy of the first victim's death."

"It's been quiet for a while now," says Basil. "Do you think whoever did this has left as well?"

"That or they've gotten better at hiding their tracks," says Harry, frustration boiling over and spilling off the edge. "This is why we need regulations and mandatory registrations!"

Basil looks at him for a while before asking, "How are vampires like?"

"I don't know," Harry says, giving a dismissive wave at the line of questioning while staring down at the list — any harder and it'd likely burst into flames. "I've never met one."

"Aren't they, for all intents and purposes, human?" asks Basil.

Harry shakes his head vehemently. "Abominations, the lot of them."

"How would you know?" says Basil. Harry opens his mouth to argue but no sounds come out, his thoughts coming to a jerking stop. He works his jaw dumbly as he tries in vain to form a coherent sequence of words.

"They joined the other side in the war," Harry finally says lamely, the argument sounding weak even to his own ears.

"Ah," Basil nods, returning his uncomfortably steady gaze back to the spread on the desk. "I suppose you would know more about that than I do."

Harry nods weakly as one hand goes into his pocket and absently fingers the short note that Berenice had given him along with the list of names.

* * *

His fingers are still playing with the note as they sit in the car, Basil having kindly offered to drive them home, or at least to their street, what with the Fidelius Charm and all. Harry never did get round to explaining Apparition to him and by this point, it'll just be awkward.

"What would you do if she comes back," says Luna softly, breaking the silence between them in the backseat. Harry glances quickly to the front and breathes a soft sigh of relief upon seeing Diane and Basil chatting about their children. "And she's different?" Harry's fingers clench guiltily at the note in his pocket, though he keeps his face carefully pensive.

"I don't know," whispers Harry, hoping that will be the end of that. Luna cocks her head to the side and just looks at him in that vacant way of hers until he can feel sweat break out on his forehead.

"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," he relents and turns away to the window.

"We're here," announces Basil and Harry jerks to attention. "You're sure you don't want us to drop you right at your home?"

"No, no. It's fine," says Harry, hurriedly shaking his hand. "Our house is uh... hidden a ways away."

"Ah," intones Basil understandingly, while Diane gives them both a confused smile. Harry merely smiles back and helps Luna unbuckle her seat belt before they both step out of the car.

Harry hovers for a while by the driver's side window as Basil rolls it down and waits expectantly. Harry ducks down and leans in so his voice is low enough for Diane not to overhear him.

"I... don't want to do this without your permission," begins Harry and Basil immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion, his face subtly shifting into his wary, alert, police mode. "I want to put a signature track on you and the family," says Harry hurriedly before Basil's thoughts can wander anywhere unsavoury.

"It's not an intrusion on your privacy," Harry placates. "I just... It'll be easier. For me to make sure you're safe."

"Please," Harry ends and swallows nervously.

"What were they thinking, sending children into war?" says Basil finally and Harry releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding. "If it eases your mind."

"Thank you, Basil," says Harry with all the sincerity he could conjure. Basil gives him a fatherly gaze that makes his heart ache and Harry cranes his neck to peer behind Basil at Diane, thanking her once again for her hospitality before stepping away from the car and waving them off.

Harry and Luna snuggle into each other for warmth and soft caresses as they make the short walk back to their home.

* * *

 **A/N: I just finished writing the week's chapter for Dying of the Light. I'm cutting it real close, guys. And if I do end up getting a job, it's going to be even tighter, but do wish me luck on getting one, a job, that is. Much as I like it to, fanfics are not going to pay themselves.**

 **As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten any author's day.**


	10. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 9

**A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated tomorrow. **

* * *

Draco — no longer just Malfoy, never just Malfoy again — gives her the second coquettish glance in the last ten minutes and that isn't counting the other four he's thrown her way in the past two hours. If he doesn't cease and desist right now, Hermione doesn't think anyone would hold her actions against her.

And the daft man wonders why no one is biting.

She puzzles at his odd behaviour as she rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time and shoots him an irritated glare. Draco merely smiles at her and swiftly shifts his attention back to their real purpose of hunting a quarry. Hermione has to remind herself that marching up to him and dragging the cheeky wanker away — for a pummelling, _not_ for anything else — would scare away all the little fishies and then what good would that do?

In her discreet corner, Hermione swivels her gaze back towards the entrance of the club, keeping an eye out for potentials.

The door swings open, bringing with it a gush of cold wind and in steps a leggy brunette with ringlets framing her small face. Hermione tilts her head, quietly assessing the newcomer before turning back to Draco, not the least bit surprised to find his eyes still on her self.

She cocks her head at him and sends him a meaningful glance in the direction of the brunette. He nods subtly and obediently cranes his neck to follow her directed path.

His eyes widen a fraction upon settling on her chosen prey and she's immediately set on edge. From this distance, she can see him staggering backwards slightly, his breath hitching and his face paling rapidly, almost devoid of any colour. He looks like he may crumple and she takes an unconscious step forward, arms held out as if to catch him.

Draco turns sharply to her and she can read the mute panic in his grey eyes as she feels her own swell in tandem. He seems to falter for a second and that is enough to propel her onwards. She pushes insistently forward through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed murmurs and glares that come her way at her rude intrusion.

But before she can reach him, her hand already stretched out expectantly, he's being hauled away and she nearly cries out. The head of platinum hair is dragged further and further away from her and she's near frantic with the need to retrieve him. She struggles and fights her way through the claustrophobic throng, keeping the distinctive white in her line of sight until it disappears through an exit.

Hermione sinks her teeth down into her bottom lip, barely managing to reign in the distress swirling in her and hardens her focus on getting to him.

She slips out quietly from the same exit, casting a mumbled muffliato and disillusionment on herself. Until she's sure about what she's up against, Hermione isn't taking any chances.

Whoever took Draco didn't go far.

"Don't lie to me, Lacey!" an unmistakably male voice shouts out. Hermione freezes for a moment but she can only hear a mumbled reply, the voice too soft for her to make out what this 'Lacey' is saying.

"I saw him eyeing you," he yells. Hermione quickens her steps, praying that Draco is unharmed. He may have the strength to easily physically overpower his captors but she recognises the thread of panic she saw in him. It has been reflected back to her more times than she cared to count — she, more than some, knows what it does to a person.

"I don't know how you got away last time, mate," he says, louder now that Hermione's nearing them. "But you're not getting off that easy this time," she hears before she rounds the corner.

Hermione only had time to catch a fleeting glance of the man, one large hand closed around Draco's throat, the other poised in a pulled back fist, before she's seeing red and lunging bodily at him.

The unexpected weight of an adult woman jumping on to his back has the man thrown off balance and he's falling backwards, Hermione still clinging onto him. The second they hit the ground, Hermione flips them over with an unnatural speed and straddles him, pinning his arms together with one hand in a hard, bruising grip.

Hermione spares a moment to look at the man beneath her, caught tight between her thighs. He's in clothes two sizes too large for him, pants halfway down his white arse and the dark sunglasses perched askew on his face, revealing one blue eye, has her sneering in disdain.

"You bitch!" he screams, spittle flying up in her face. Above him, Hermione smiles, lazy and cruel, baring rows of sharpened teeth. A feminine scream sounds nearby. Without looking, Hermione points her wand at the source of the noise and casts a Silencio and Stunner in rapid succession.

"What the fuck?! What the fuck?!" the man screams, bucking wildly against her and a shiver lances deliciously through her at the primal fear displayed so brazenly in front of her.

"Didn't anybody teach you that hurting other people is bad?" Hermione purrs huskily down at him, brushing light fingertips over the twitching spot in his neck where his pulse is the strongest. The ammonic smell of piss permeates through the air and she chuckles. She rears back, one fist pulled back in an imitation of his earlier stance and brings it swinging down on his nose.

The audible crack is satisfaction to her ears.

Bloodlust sings in her veins as she brings her fist down and down again. She's almost lost to the high when she feels a gentle warmth curls itself around her bloodied fist and firmly holds it back. Dazed, she looks up to see Draco — lovely, beautiful, Draco — shaking his head and gently caressing her split knuckles.

He bends down, crouching in the process, neatly avoiding stepping on the whimpering mess of a man still underneath Hermione, and embraces her. She instantly wraps her arms around him and like a child, clings to him as he says soothing nothings to her.

"Lovely, lovely, Draco," she half sings, half whispers. "You keep me here, you know."

"I know, love, I know," he says, not letting go just yet.

"You won't ever leave me, will you?" she asks, sounding small and childlike.

"I won't," he replies, squeezing her gently and she sighs happily, burrowing her face into his neck.

Hermione feels more than hears him heave a sigh and pulling back, he says, "Don't waste." Just like that, a cold bucket of reality douses her and she shakes herself out of her temporary stupor. She blinks, seeing seemingly for the first time, the moaning man begging quietly for mercy. Frowning, she slides forward, better angling herself and complies with his request.

It is when they've finished their respective meals that Draco brings up the unconscious girl lying at their feet. They stare at her dumbly, pondering what to do with her until Draco suggests Obliviation.

"No," Hermione says, a little too vehemently, causing Draco to raise a questioning eyebrow.

"I will not obliviate her. If you wish to do so, go ahead," she says, voice tensed and tight. "But I will not."

"I can't even if I wanted to," Draco points out curtly. "Even with magic I couldn't really do it. I'd have better luck using a rock."

"We are not bludgeoning her in the head in the hopes that it'll erase her memory of the night," Hermione says brusquely. Draco arches the other eyebrow at her incredulously.

"Oh stop that. You look surprised," Hermione snipes. "It's not a good look on you."

Ignoring Hermione's uncharacteristic snideness, Draco gestures, irritated, at the girl and asks, "Well what do you suggest we do then? Kill her? Leave her?"

"I think we should," Hermione says quietly, a thoughtful look on her face.

"Kill?" confirms Draco.

"No," she answers and gives him a funny look. "Leave." This time his eyebrows shoot so high up, they disappear underneath his fringe.

"I stunned her early enough that she didn't really see anything," Hermione says, shrugging. "Besides, no muggle would believe her."

"I've read the Daily Star, Granger."

"Hermione," she says automatically, and then, "Fine, no _sane_ muggle would believe her." Draco quiets into a thoughtful grimace and Hermione resists the urge to press her thumb between his brows and smooth away the lines there.

"Coming, Draco?" she asks, wiggling the fingers on the hand she held out to him. Still frowning, Draco nods and slips his hand into hers, naturally lacing their fingers together.

* * *

Later, when they're tucked comfortably in bed, each lying on their side of the shared space, Granger — Hermione, Draco reminds himself — voices the question that she's clearly been dying to ask. It's a wonder that she's even held out this long.

"You knew them?" she asks, toying with a stray thread on his pillow and avoiding looking at him directly. Draco pauses, absent-mindedly stilling her fiddling as he thinks about how to go about explaining the matter to her.

It appears that he's taken too long contemplating the issue because Granger flushes and hurriedly says, "It's fine if you can't tell me, I understand." Beneath his hand, her fingers starts fidgeting again and she's even more adamant at looking everywhere but him.

Draco smiles tenderly and draws lazy circles into the back of her palm.

"Only in passing," he says and she snaps her eyes to him. Granger looks at him expectantly, eyes a little wide, lips turned down in a slight pout and Draco sighs in surrender. He doesn't know when he's started becoming susceptible to those doe eyes of her but he can't really find it in himself to complain about it.

"She was a muggle I..." Draco trails off, cheeks aflame.

"Shagged?" Granger supplies. He cringes but nods slowly.

She is quiet for a long time. For a while he thinks that she has gone to sleep, but then she moves closer to him, tucking her head under his chin and he can feel her shirt just barely brushing against his arm and he knows that she's awake still.

"Do you miss it?"

"I... can't miss what I barely had, can I?" he murmurs, closing the final gap between them and tugging her to him so he can place one arm over the dip of her waist. "With her, I didn't even remember... much."

"It was my first," he adds and mentally kicks himself for voluntarily supplying that information. He's sharing too much honesty today and the armful of Granger is making it hard for him to think straight. Draco grunts, a light warning for her to keep her amusement at bay — not that it ever stopped her.

"And what were those Slytherin Sex God rumours?" she asks, poking him lightly in the chest as she pushes back a little so she can see his face.

"Reports of my prowess have been greatly exaggerated," he huffs, smiling self-deprecatingly. "I ran after I woke up at her place. Like a dog with its tail."

"With its tail between its legs," Granger corrects. Draco snorts. Some things never change.

"Right, that," he says, looking away at some point beyond the curve of Granger's shoulder. "The rumours about my cowardice are as real as ever."

The feel of her thumb softly stroking his cheekbone brings him back to her. She is staring at him and his breath catches at what he finds there in her gaze. He doesn't know who moved first, maybe it was the both of them, but her lips are pressing lightly onto his and he's holding on to the back of her head, needing to deepen, to explore, to taste.

No words are exchanged as they uncovered the other, their movements languid, untainted by urgency, and almost reverent as they tug at hems and pull down waistbands. She is soft and smooth, unblemished perfection next to his marred disfigurement yet the way she touches every inch of his bare skin is like worship.

He's done nothing to deserve this, he knows. Far be it, he's done everything possible to be the very last person who should ever be in this situation. If she asks for his heart as penance then, Draco would fashion the knife out of his bone and carve his chest to offer it up to her, the organ still beating and pumping. But she doesn't and so he settles for kisses layered with adulation and devotion.

Draco doesn't know the proper methods and the cues and the techniques but he does know her — Granger, Hermione, all of her — and when she grinds her pelvis insistently into him, he dares to think he knows what she wants too.

Still, doubt rears its ugly head and he stops, peers uncertainly at her and asks anyway, "Are you... Do you... Really?"

"Don't," she says and he's about to spring away, to leave her be, when she grips his arm and tightens her thighs around him. She grinds against him again and this time he can feel how ready she is, the evidence of it smeared on him.

"Don't," she repeats and he finally understands.

"Hermione," he sighs as he slides into her. She gasps and fear prickles in him that he's injured her but then she is moving fervently against him and the tension coiled in his spine loosens as he tries to match her thrust for thrust.

"Hermione," he sighs again as he lets go. He doesn't last long — not long enough to ensure her the same addicting bliss that captured him in its grasp. It occurs to him to be embarrassed but the look in her eyes, helped by the gentle sweeping of his sweat slicked hair off his forehead, tells him there is no need for that and the shame leaves him.

She is content to let it be, it seems, but Draco will not — cannot — tolerate that and he pushes his way down till he is leaning one cheek against her sweaty inner thigh.

He spreads her legs open so she is exposed to him. Draco takes a moment to marvel at the sight of her, one finger coming up to run tentatively along her. It comes away slick and he can't quite stifle the dark moan that leaves him when he licks the finger clean.

She is the best that he's ever tasted.

He's lowering his head to her when she sits up suddenly, pushing against his shoulder to stop him from going any further. He looks up at her, confused, and takes in the honey brown eyes, wide in alarm, and he flinches like she's seared him.

"I would never..." he chokes out. "I will never... Not you. Never, you. Even if it means my end."

"Please," he whispers and shuts his eyes against her rejection. He is braced, poised to flee; when soft lips meets his and forms words he has trouble perceiving.

"I... trust you," she murmurs. "I trust you," she says again, louder, with more conviction and lies back, opening herself up to him in echo of her words.

Draco dips his head and silently promises to have her not regret her trust, to have her associate his mouth, his eating with something else entirely.

When she shudders, body arching fully off the bed, mouth working mutely and hands twisting in the sheets, Draco thinks she tastes like relief and triumph. When she immediately grabs him after, eyes glazed over and sinks her teeth into his shoulder and he _lets_ her, he thinks she is adoration too.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Hermione says in a tiny voice as Draco holds her close and she licks the wound in apology. Draco chuckles in genuine amusement and she lets herself savour the feel of his bare rumbling chest, raised scars and all, brushing against her own.

"It happens," he dismisses casually, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"Had a lot of bloodsucking bed mates, did you?" she says, swatting him playfully on the shoulder and he winces as it comes into contact with the most recent bite. The apology is at the tip of her tongue but he shakes his head and she swallows it, kissing the underside of his jaw instead.

"Just the one," he replies.

"Unlucky girl," Hermione says sympathetically.

"Oh, I don't know," Draco says. "I hear she quite likes the taste of me."

Hermione stiffens and in turn, she can feel him stiffen as well in reaction. He inhales, and she knows what he's about to say but she beats him to it and says, "Don't," and squeezes him gently. He takes another breath before nodding hesitantly.

"Do you remember what it was like?" she asks because she's already dug the hole and she might as well go the entire way.

Draco doesn't pretend to not understand. They have discussed it, one conversation sometime after she's taken him to the library — it was the only time they have ever talked about what had happened — or might have happened, in his case — that made them this way.

She spoke of remembering a creeping darkness that grips with an unrelenting iciness, of the way she can still feel it lurking around the edges, always. She'd finally understood, soon after the turning, what the vampires had meant by it being a death sentence. The only way to stay the path of that darkness is to drink, but even then, its presence never truly fades away.

She had watched Draco carefully for any recognition — his eyes had flickered though he remained resolutely quiet and she had allowed him the privacy of secrets back then. But now the urge for her to know is almost unbearable.

He is quiet for long enough for her unease to grow.

"Not at first," Draco says quietly, at last. "The eating helps." She nods but can't find it in her to face him. His predicament isn't her fault, but the relief that surges through her at his confession is her own doing and she knows, intellectually, that it isn't something to wish on anyone.

"Being with you helps too," he adds. Hermione startles and she knows he's taken it the wrong way — silly, silly Draco — because he's mumbling and trying to untangle from her and she can't be having with that. Hermione doesn't let go and eventually he settles while she nuzzles his neck till she can feel the tautness bleed out of him.

"You keep me here, Draco," she says between nips to his throat.

"Don't ever forget that," she admonishes before leaning up to his mouth to devour him whole.

* * *

 **A/N: So... yes. That happened. There's Lucissa smut too, in Dying of the Light, if you didn't know already. Good news is, I got the job. Bad news is, time management is a thing now. I took a break to post this up, but it's back to assignments for me, which I'm dreading. I'm not even dreading the coding bit. That, I actually like, it's the having to write stuff about me and my 'interests' that I really abhor. It's not going to be live, of course, but really, the internet doesn't need another vanity site. **


	11. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 10

**A/N: Dying of the Light will most likely be updated tomorrow.**

* * *

Harry is on the loo when Luna strolls in, unabashed, and unceremoniously dumps a ringing device in his lap. She drops a kiss on the top of his head, reminds him to use a freshening charm when he's done before strolling out nonchalantly, closing the door behind her.

In his lap, 'God Save the Queen' continues to play in 8-bit MIDI tones.

It is going into its second repeat of that singular verse when Harry remembers himself and hurriedly answers the blasted phone. He's quite forgotten that he was supposed to be carrying it with him at all times. Harry had persuaded Basil to try out owl posting once and that was the last time Basil had trusted him in regards to any form of communication, wizarding or not. It turns out that Basil isn't terribly fond of birds.

"Hello, hello?" Harry says after a bit of fumbling with the buttons. Whoever thought it was a good idea to place such tiny keypads on these things deserves a very special place in hell.

"Did I... Did I catch you at a bad time?" Basil asks, his voice sounding tinny and weirdly high pitched through the mobile.

"Not really, no," Harry answers, glancing around at the bathroom.

"I know you're in the bathroom, Harry," Basil says and Harry instantly flushes at being caught in this awkward social faux pas. These portable phones, he decides, are a menace.

"I'm- I'm not- How- How did you-" Harry stammers and though it is a silly and impossible notion, Harry cranes his neck, checking for any surprise muggle devices hidden in the bathroom.

"The acoustics, Harry," Basil explains. "It tends to echo in bathrooms."

"Oh," Harry says. "Of course. Sorry?" he offers uncertainly. An apology seems like the proper protocol when caught being in the bathroom while on the phone, but just in case he's gone and got it wrong, Harry fashions it enough that it can be construed as a question as well.

"It happens to the best of us," Basil laughs good-naturedly for a while. "Yeah, anyway."

"Can you get to Bethlem Royal?" Basil asks and Harry sobers at the serious tone.

"What happened?" Harry asks, straightening slightly, wand already out as he mumbles the charm Luna mentioned.

Basil sighs heavily, tone burdened with weariness. "There's been an attack."

* * *

"Bethlem Royal is an asylum?" whispers Harry, surprise colouring his tone.

"I thought everybody in London knew that," says Basil, glancing sideways at Harry and tucking his hands into his trench coat pockets as they follow the attendant leading them to the ward. Harry gives him a pointed look and Basil shrugs, slowing a step to put a little more distance between them and the hospital staff.

"I thought even your kind would know of it," Basil clarifies, dropping his volume lower. "It's rather notorious."

"How so?" Harry asks curiously.

"Unethical treatment of inmates, for one," says Basil. "The field of psychiatry in those times were generally fucked up."

"Everything you've heard of, they've done. Lobotomy, electroshock therapy, the likes," Basil continues. "And god forbid you were a woman back then. You could get committed for speaking your mind. Called it hysteria, they did." Unbidden, Harry thinks of Luna, back in Grimmauld Place — safe, if he can help it.

"The word 'bedlam'?" Basil says. "This was the place that coined it — the original." Harry looks around at the innocuous hallway with its pristine white walls and sterile smell, masking all that history. He decides he's heard quite enough.

"Why are we here?" Harry asks. If the change of subject surprises Basil, he makes no outward indication of it.

"They found this girl in some back alley way behind one of those clubs for the youngsters in Soho. She was lying, seemed to be unharmed, beside a pool of blood but there was no other body in sight," says Basil, flipping through a spiral notebook he's pulled out of his coat. "The blood doesn't match hers. When she came to she started gibbering nonsense about her boyfriend and monsters and... magic."

" _Magic_ magic?" Harry asks, one eyebrow arched up.

"That's what you're here for," Basil says, cocking his head at Harry. "It seems she keeps mentioning David Copperfield, which is not your type of magic but the talk of monsters and the blood..."

"Yeah. It sounds like it could be something from my world," Harry finishes for Basil. Basil nods.

"It could be connected to our case or it could not," Basil adds. "It's hard to tell right now."

"Well, then," Harry says, holding the swinging door open for Basil, gesturing for the other man to go before him. The attendant escorting them walks briskly ahead. "Let's find out."

* * *

The first thing Harry notices about Lacey Hart is that she has the same shade of brown in her hair that Hermione does. The resemblance ends there though.

Where Hermione's brown eyes shine with intelligence and a muted fire, Lacey's are a dull cerulean. Where Hermione always seems to be in motion, even when she's just doing paperwork, Lacey is deathly still, like a figurine suspended in time and space.

Harry experimentally passes a hand in front of Lacey. She doesn't blink, doesn't flinch, doesn't even seem to have noticed their presence. Harry glances at Basil, doubtful. Basil shakes his head and walks past Harry, crouching in front of Lacey while maintaining some distance between them.

"Lacey?" Basil says gently. If Harry hadn't been watching her closely, he would have missed the slight twitch in her fingers. Basil glances up at Harry and they exchange a meaningful look.

"Lacey?" Basil tries again. This time she blinks, and those dull, dull eyes zero in on Basil.

"She's not here," Lacey says before flickering her eyes away dismissively.

"Sorry, who isn't?" Basil asks in a confused tone.

"Lacey," she says impatiently. "She's not here."

"Ah. May I know who I'm speaking to then?" Basil asks, giving Harry a quick sideway glance.

"No one important," Lacey replies, looking annoyed. "Did you want something or are you just here to stare like a couple of perverts?"

"I'm Basil, this is Harry," Basil introduces, gesturing to Harry. Lacey looks warily at Harry and Harry gives her what he hopes is a reassuring nod. "We're with the police. Lacey was found unconscious in an alley last night, is there anything you can tell us about that?"

"Harry..." Lacey says like she's testing the name on her tongue, eyes flicking momentarily to Harry's forehead. "Common name. It's... rather far-fetched, but any relation to Harry Potter?"

"That- That's me," Harry startles. Basil looks at him, bewildered, and Harry shrugs helplessly back. "How do you know?"

"You don't look like much of a war hero," Lacey sneers and turns her attention back to Basil like she's done with Harry.

"Wait, what do you mean war hero?" Harry says, stepping forward, but when she shrinks into her chair, he puts up both palms and steps back again.

"Are you thick?" Lacey accuses. "I meant what I said, didn't I?"

"How do you know about that?" asks Harry, fingers twitching to touch the smooth wood of his wand tucked into his sock.

"David Copperfield's a talkative drunk, innit," Lacey says, shrugging, but then she turns sharply to Harry and narrows her eyes at him. "Thought 'e made you up. I'm still not sure he didn't. You're too young to be in any war."

"How does this David Copperfield look like?" Basil interrupts, drawing Lacey's attention away. Harry silently thanks the man.

"White. Whitest arse you've ever seen," Lacey sniggers. "White hair too. Could lose him in the fucking snow. Thought it was dyed, but it's real."

"He's real posh too, you can tell," Lacey adds. "Oh, and he's got this tattoo with like... a snake? A skull? Something gothic anyway," she says as she gestures vaguely at her arm.

Harry freezes. Basil must have noticed because he sends a quizzical look at Harry. Harry shakes his head and mouths 'later' to him. Still puzzled, Basil nonetheless nods and turns back to Lacey.

"I don't know how..." Lacey says, frowning. "But it seemed like Roy knew him too."

"Roy is Lacey's boyfriend?" Basil questions. Lacey nods.

"He went straight for him last night," Lacey says. "Lacey didn't even see him yet. One minute Roy was there, the next he was dragging the bloke out."

"David Copperfield was there last night?" Basil asks and Harry is glad that Basil is there, doing the interview, because he doesn't think he can remain as unflappable as the other man.

"Yeah. Roy was beating on him," Lacey says, lips curling up in disgust. "I told Lacey, didn't I? Told her Roy's a little pisshead, but she never listens."

"And then what happened?"

Lacey flicks her head almost like she's trying to shake a thought out, eyes going unfocused. Her breaths start coming in short bursts and light tremors dance through her. Worry comes over Basil's face while Harry hangs back, unsure of what to do.

"And then... Teeth... Rows and rows of sharp teeth. Then suddenly I couldn't talk... I mean, Lacey... couldn't talk... She was trying, really trying to scream for help, but that... stick... was pointed at me- Lacey again... and Roy was... Roy was... terrified... I-" she stops abruptly and her wide eyes swivel, pupils shrivelled into pinpricks, darting back and forth between Basil and Harry.

Her mouth is open, tongue, thick and heavy, thrashing wildly in the cavern as she claws at her throat silently. Fresh tracks of wounds appear underneath her fast reddening nails. The attendant lurking nearby immediately runs out, shouting for the nurses and doctors.

It's only after they've subdued and sedated her do Basil and Harry realise that she's been trying to scream the entire time.

* * *

"Fuck," Harry says after they've escaped to the hospital grounds.

Behind him, he hears the sound of a lighter flicking open. Harry turns to see Basil about to light one up. Sensing eyes on him, Basil pauses and looks up. Meeting Harry's gaze, Basil gives him a sheepish smile before lighting the stick of tobacco up anyway.

Harry quirks an accusing brow at him.

"Diane doesn't know," Basil says. "It helps with the nerves." Sticking the cigarette between his lips, Basil sucks in a deep pull, the end sizzling softly as the oxygen rushes through the lit embers.

"Give us one then," Harry says, putting a palm out expectantly when Basil gives him a lopsided, distinctly patronizing, smile of amusement.

"You sure?" questions Basil.

Getting slightly annoyed, Harry makes a come hither motion with his extended palm. "I'm a grown man, Basil."

"It's your funeral, son," Basil relents, holding out the carton for Harry to take one.

"I think that's the least of my worries now," Harry says as Basil comes forwards with the lighter. Harry leans down, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the breeze. He lights the cigarette and takes a shallow inhale which he promptly expels by going into a coughing fit.

"How-" Harry wheezes and coughs again.

"Fuck!" he manages to shout out before devolving into yet more coughing. Basil, who looks far too smug in Harry's opinion, merely looks on without even lifting a finger to help.

"Shit!" Harry curses when he finally settles enough to manage a proper sentence. "What the fuck is this shite?! How do you people smoke this thing?!"

"Time and practice, my boy," Basil says, smiling slightly. "Time and practice," he repeats and takes another drag while Harry winces and throws his largely unsmoked cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his heel.

"You're lucky I like you," Basil says, looking pointedly at Harry's shoe. "These things don't come cheap."

"Nerves you say?" Harry asks, tampering the urge to lick against random surfaces to get rid of the ashy taste in his mouth.

"It's a harrowing job," Basil says flatly, all traces of humour dissipating. "She isn't my first trauma victim."

"Shit," Harry curses, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Basil."

"Should I feel envious or worried that the wizarding world doesn't know what trauma is?" Basil asks.

"Worried," Harry answers. "Definitely worried."

They fall into a silence after that, the only sound between them being the low sizzling of Basil's cigarette till he finishes the last of it and drops the butt to the ground.

"So, who is our David Copperfield?" Basil asks, breaking the stillness of the moment.

"He..." Harry hesitates. "I knew him from school."

"Friend of yours?"

"No. God, no," Harry says, shaking his head. "We've butted heads ever since we met."

"A rival then," says Basil knowingly.

"It's... more than that," Harry sighs. "Remember what I told you about the Death Eaters?" Basil nods.

"Well, he was one of them," Harry says. "That tattoo? It's a mark given to them upon initiation into their ranks."

"This boy… He's the same year as you?" Basil questions.

"Yes," Harry confirms. Basil grunts oddly, it coming out like a cross between a snort and a scoff, and reaches for another cigarette.

"But it doesn't make sense," Harry says, pushing his glasses up and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "He's a blood purist. What would he be doing in the mug- human world?"

"When's the last time you've seen him?" Basil asks. The lighter flicks open, the flame flares, the cigarette butt hisses, Basil inhales, exhales.

"Give or take a few years," Harry replies.

"People change," Basil says matter-of-factly. Harry makes a vague noise of disbelief but then Basil says something that makes Harry stand up straighter. "The last time you saw him, did he have sharp teeth?"

* * *

Ron has only ever been to Malfoy Manor on one previous occasion and that hadn't exactly been a pleasant experience. To see the place fall into such disrepair is surprisingly cathartic and Ron allows himself a tiny smile before that vanishes into a deep set frown.

Tentatively, he steps forward to the gate, wand held out in front of him like a shield. Gently, he probes the Manor's wards and is surprised when he feels it yield under his scrutiny.

It seems too easy and Ron briefly ponders the possibility of it being a trap but the gate opens easily when he pushes against it and he's already going inside before he can fully formulate the thought.

He's gone too far to back down now, not especially when the answers could possibly be within reach. He will, he decides, go through with it till the bitter end.

* * *

 **A/N: I've got a shift till midnight tonight (and for a few other nights), your reviews will keep me going strong till then. A reminder that if you're not reading Dying of the Light, you probably should be. The two stories are related and does frequently reference each other. **

**As always, review. Even a simple 'I like it!' lets us know you're still reading and that you're enjoying it.**


	12. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 11

**A/N: Chances are, Dying of the Light will be updated on Sunday. I'm behind on the chapter.**

* * *

Sometimes, Hermione forgets that there's an entire world outside their little safe house with its dust lined walls and papered up windows and mirrors. If given the choice, she'd sequester Draco and herself into the place and never see the moonlight again but the creeping darkness lurking always on the edge of their minds is impossible to ignore. Before long they'd be force out on the hunt, desperate to avoid feeling that icy emptiness again.

It is despicably easy too to forget that people exist for more than just fodder.

Hermione looks at the way Draco's eyes are lit up like a child who has discovered sweets for the first time and she smiles softly. He eagerly scans the pub, gaze flitting from costume to costume as he drinks in the festive muggle scene. The excitement on his face is almost foreign to her - she can't remember the last time she's felt that way for any holiday or anything really. The Halloween celebrations in Hogwarts seem like a lifetime ago.

Draco whistles low, bringing Hermione out of her brooding. Curious, Hermione tracks his gaze to a scantily clad librarian with a skirt so short it'd shock Madam Pince into a coma she'd never wake up from. Hermione frowns as the bint shoots a flirtatious glance in their direction that is ultimately wasted on him because the wanker is too preoccupied with staring at that swishing, sorry excuse of a costume.

Looping her left arm around his, she surreptitiously reaches in with her right and pinches him hard in the side. As Draco squawks in pain by her side, Hermione turns to the sexy librarian and smiles, lips curling up to show jagged, sharp, teeth.

Her smile grows wider as the other woman pales, eyes widening, and stumbles backwards in too high heels in her haste to remove herself from Hermione's gaze.

"You're scaring her," says Draco and Hermione scowls at the amusement she can hear in the insufferable git's tone. Expecting the second pinch this time, Draco does no more than grunt when her fingers find his side again. Deprived of his dramatics, Hermione sulks though her left arm trapped in his prevents her from moving away from him.

"Good, she should be," Hermione retorts moodily. He chuckles and her pout turns even further downwards.

"I never pegged you for one with a jealous streak," he teases. Once, an age ago, she would have balked at the mere suggestion and reacted as such. Times are different though and she has no desire to play 'keeping up appearances' with Draco who has witnessed her at her best and coaxed her out of her worst. Such frivolous games are for other, less fucked up, people.

"You're mine," she states simply.

"Like a possession?" Draco asks and she snaps her head to look up at him. "Should I be flattered?"

"I'm not-" she says, looking straight into those cool grey eyes while her left hand snakes up his forearm to tightly grip his right hand. "It's a choice, Draco. I won't make — _force_ — you if you don't- I won't."

"Shhh," he hushes. He shakes his hand free of hers and she nearly shatters at that but then he's gently taking her hand back and adjusting their hold so he can comfortably lace their fingers together without her crushing him. "Yours."

"So long as you leave the canaries out of this," he says, leaning over to peck her forehead. "I don't mind belonging to you."

Hermione cringes, colour rushing to her cheeks as the bastard grins cheekily at her. "You heard about that, did you?" she mumbles.

"The whole school heard about it," Draco says. "Hogwarts is an especially efficient rumour mill. The only one more competent is the circle of pureblood ladies my mother frequents in."

"Back to the point at hand," Draco says, gesturing vaguely at the empty spot where the sexy librarian had been. "She could have been easy."

"I'll _bet_ she could have been easy," Hermione grouses. Draco turns to her and stares at her wordlessly for so long Hermione begins to pat her wild hair down self-consciously. She is about to check her teeth for anything stuck in there as well when he pulls her in and leans down so closely she can feel his breath gliding over her ear.

"I'll be the first to admit that the whole possessive display is making me want to take you back home and shag you till we both can't walk," he whispers and she shivers unconsciously at the need in his voice but he's pulling away and she bites the inside of her cheeks hard to stop herself from reaching out to him. "But, we need to." He looks pointedly at Hermione and she nods in acquiesce.

Silently, she peruses the mass of bodies while Draco presumably does the same. Shifting her gaze away from a sexy scarecrow grinding against a person in a full-bodied bunny costume, Hermione eyes the bar instead.

"Draco?" she asks and he hums in acknowledgement. "I don't think we need worry," she says and cocks her head towards the bar where a man with a long, fake, white beard is eyeing the both of them salaciously.

Draco is quiet for a moment and Hermione has to cough to mask the giggles that almost escaped her.

"Why is he dressed like Dumbledore?" Draco says, his voice carefully even.

"He's supposed to be a wizard," Hermione explains. "A wizard who likes purple robes," she adds.

"Do Muggles really think all wizards look like Dumbledore?" Draco asks, looking at Hermione like she's supposed to be the keeper to the knowledge of why Muggles are as daft as they seem. Hermione shrugs and nods apologetically.

"It's... a culture thing," she says. "That image is ingrained in their heads as 'wizard'."

Draco sighs a long suffering kind of sigh. "It could be worse, right?"

"I'm sure it could," Hermione says, placating, while nudging him out of their booth. She smiles shyly at the Dumbledore lookalike as she manoeuvres them in his direction. "It could have been Voldemort."

* * *

Instead of going straight home like they normally do, Draco surprises Hermione by stopping her when she makes to take his arm for the side along apparition and suggesting they walk home.

Hermione looks at him sceptically, even reaching out to feel for his forehead but all he does is stand still and humour her as she makes a show of checking him for a fever. He waits patiently till she's done running her hands all over his face and he rolls his eyes at her affectionately then reaches for her and tugs her along with him as he turns and walks out of the back alleys.

She quickens her steps till she's walking alongside him and tucks her arm into his, leaning her head on his shoulder as he slows down to accommodate her shorter legs.

Side by side, huddled into each other, they make their way out of central London to the outskirts near Islington where the Muggle neighbourhoods loom in clusters of flats and townhouses.

Several children run pass them, dressed in adorable little costumes and clutching pumpkin buckets that rattle with sweets.

Draco pauses, causing Hermione to halt as well, gazing after the children thoughtfully.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Hermione prods.

"Nothing. Just wondering what they're doing," Draco says, gesturing at the children far ahead of them, ringing a doorbell and screaming something Draco can't quite catch.

"You know, I'm not sure," Hermione says. "I never did this as a child. It looks like they're collecting sweets from the houses."

"I would never have been allowed anyway," Hermione says and when Draco looks at her quizzically, she adds, "My parents were dentists."

"Dentists?" Draco echoes, tilting his head to the side.

"Like Muggle healers but for teeth," Hermione explains.

"Ah," Draco nods sagely. "That would explain why you'd hoard the sweets on the table during Halloween in Hogwarts. Deprivation is a tragedy."

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione gasps, one hand fluttering to rest delicately on her heart. "Have you been secretly watching me all the while back then?" Draco instantly flushes, mumbling incomprehensibly to his shoe, gaze darting everywhere but her.

"I'm waiting," Hermione sings, one foot tapping against the pavement in mock impatience. "Or have you always been a closet pervert?"

"I'm not-!" he starts to protest but is cut off by a tiny blond figure barrelling into the back of his knees. He lets out an undignified 'oof!', his free arm flailing in the air as Hermione scrambles to right him before he falls forwards.

"Oh god!" exclaims a voice a distance behind them just as Draco manages to salvage his balance, muttering, "I'm fine, I'm fine!" to Hermione as he spins around to see what has run into him.

The déjà vu from seeing the tearful little girl, dressed like a princess and staring up at him hits him like a sledgehammer and he freezes in his spot, breath catching as Hermione stills beside him as well.

"I'm so sorry!" the same voice from before shouts and Draco blinks, shaken from his stupor and mutely offers his hand to the little girl, pulling her up when she accepts his help.

"I keep telling her to not run ahead," her mother says, flustered from the running, the exact shade of dirty blond hair, now shortened to shoulder length bouncing similarly as it did last time. "But she never listens."

"Children can be stubborn," Draco says, smiling weakly at the woman who narrows her eyes, peering intently at his face before her eyes widen in unmistakable recognition.

"Oh my!" she says. "It's you again!" And Draco can feel Hermione's gaze burning into him as he keeps his attention focused on the girl's mother. He pats Hermione's hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

"I don't know what it is with my daughter and bumping into you," she says, shaking her head and laughing a little as she bends down to pat the girl on the head. Suddenly shy, the girl runs between her mother's legs and hides behind her, peeking over the side at them.

"Silly girl," the mother says fondly before turning to look at Draco sympathetically. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Draco says, waving his hand dismissively. "Hermione caught me before I fell." The woman looks over to Hermione, seemingly surprised to see her and Hermione gives her a tight smile.

"No, I meant, you ran off last time," the woman starts to say but winces apologetically and looks guiltily at Hermione then back at Draco. "I'm sorry, it's not my place to pry and I really shouldn't be disturbing you on your date."

"Oh no, no," Hermione says, shaking her head quickly causing her curls to bounce around her. "You're not intruding. Not intruding us, I mean. It's not a date. I mean, we _were_ on a date, but we're just walking home now. So, no, you're not-"

"Love, you're rambling," Draco says kindly, squeezing her hand gently.

"God, I'm sorry," Hermione says and looks at the little girl, still hiding behind her mother. "It's just. She's really cute. I love her hair."

A knowing look crosses the mother's face and her eyes twinkle with mirth. "Yes, she got that from her father. I love to see them under the sun, it-"

"It glints like gold under the sunlight," Hermione finishes distantly, not breaking her gaze away from the girl.

The mother smiles and nods slowly. "That's right."

"Anyway," she says, reaching down to take her little girl's hand. "We should be going. We've still got houses to get to. It's dreadfully American, this whole trick or treating business, but the children love it."

"Understandably," Draco chuckles dutifully as the mother sighs in exasperation and nods amiably at them as she begins to lead her daughter on.

Before the mother daughter pair could pass them, the daughter suddenly reaches out and tugs at Hermione's coat. Hermione takes a quick glance at Draco before stooping to lower herself to the girl's level.

"Hello," Hermione says, smiling softly.

"What are you supposed to be?" the girl asks.

"Oh," Hermione says, blinking. "Well, I'm a vampire." The girl narrows her eyes and turns her gaze to Draco. "I'm her ghoul," he answers promptly.

She wrinkles her nose and squints accusingly at them. "You don't look like one," she says to Hermione then turns to Draco, her tone bossy, "And I don't know what a gh- gol- goal is, but I'm sure you don't look like one of them either."

"Ah," Draco says. "But what makes us really scary is that you can't tell that we're different."

"Then you're not doing it right," the girl says gravely. "Monsters are supposed to look different. You are supposed to be able to tell."

"Enough," her mother chides. "Not everybody has the time to put together a costume like you, don't be rude."

"Sorry," the mother apologises again. "Come along," she says to the girl and together they walk off, the daughter chattering happily while her mother listens and nods occasionally.

As though through some unspoken agreement, Draco and Hermione stay rooted to the spot, watching after them and only turning to leave once the pair are well out of sight.

* * *

Hermione is uncharacteristically quiet when they reach home and Draco isn't quite sure what to say to break her out of her contemplative mood.

"Is it what the girl said?" Draco asks as they go about their bedtime routine, easily sidestepping and moving around each other in a dance they have perfected.

"Hmm? What is?" Hermione says distractedly, pulling on a woollen jumper, which predictably snags on her hair, leaving her in an awkward turtle-like position. Right on cue, Draco deftly steps behind her and helps her ease her head through the neck hole.

"Something's bothering you," Draco says, bending down and resting his chin on her shoulder as he peers at her through the corner of his eye.

"You mean the bit about monsters and looking different?" Hermione asks, angling her head to the side so she can get a better look at him. Draco hums and nods in affirmation.

"No," she says, shaking her head slightly. "No, that's just babble from the mouth of babes. Cute, but hardly accurate."

"It's something else," she says, chewing on the bottom of her lip. "Nothing important." Draco raises a questioning eyebrow and she pulls his arms around her waist, leans back against his chest and starts swaying them both slowly.

"It's... in the past," Hermione says. "Let's just let the past lie where it is."

"Hermione?" Draco starts but pauses, suddenly unsure on how to proceed. His mind is going in circles and he's not even sure if he really wants what he's about to ask her. But it has been gnawing at him since they met the mother daughter pair and if he were being honest, it had been even longer than that, needling at him like an itch at the back of his brain.

"Hermione," he tries again but falters all the same.

"What is it, Draco?" Hermione asks kindly, resting her hands on top of his and drawing lazy circles on his skin.

"Can we go to Malfoy Manor?" he blurts out. "Not tonight, of course, but one of these nights. It's not strictly the wizarding world either, I mean, at least it isn't in the heart of Diagon Alley and no one will know anyway," Draco rambles, barely stopping to breathe.

Hermione doesn't jerk away but her sudden stillness is just as bad, if not worse. Draco closes his eyes and tucks his face into the crook of her neck.

"My parents," Draco mumbles against her skin. "I just... I have to know."

"It's torture," Draco continues, "not knowing for sure. If there's the slightest chance..."

When Hermione finally moves to rub her hands along his forearms, Draco relaxes and slumps, leaning more of his weight on her which she bears without complaint.

"Okay, Draco," Hermione says soothingly. "Okay."

* * *

 **A/N: It's not the right holiday, I know, but I literally got the idea to include this on Halloween itself, so it was all in the works. I also, quite literally, just finish writing the next chapter for Flesh and Blood, so like I said, behind. (I have yet to write the next chapter for Dying of the Light, thus the possibility of it only being updated on Sunday if not later).**

 **As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" helps.**


	13. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 12

**A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated either later tonight, tomorrow or the day after.**

* * *

The Manor is large, much larger than the Burrow can ever aspire to be and Ron can't help a sense of resentment that seeps in as he marks only one quarter of the east wing done.

It's been days, maybe a week even, that Ron has been in the Malfoy ancestral home, combing the place meticulously for anything really: dark artefacts, ritual sacrifice, signs of foul play — he wouldn't put it pass the Malfoys to not dabble in any one of these foul acts. He's not entirely sure what has cause the entire family to abandon their ostentatious mansion but whatever it is, Ron is determined to track it right down to its — likely bloody, in a literal sense, he wagers — source.

He sighs as a search through another bedroom in this place turns out nothing but a bunch of dust bunnies. Ron sneezes loudly as one disperses under his touch and gets into his nose.

Ron frowns while looking about. He thinks about Kreacher and how even after the Black family is gone, the grumpy house elf still stuck by Grimmauld Place and eventually serve Harry who's become the de facto heir to the Black fortune after Sirius' passing.

Surely the Malfoys have more elves than just Dobby. The sudden unbidden thought of a pile of house elves bodies stacked atop one another in the dungeons comes to him and he is involuntarily reminded of Walburga Black's idea of interior decorating in the form of elf heads. He shudders and tries to shake the thought away but now that the idea has entered his head, he is finding it difficult to be rid of it.

Hoping to distract himself, he moves on to the next room to start his search again.

The search so far has been unfruitful at best and hazardous to his health at worse as he sneezes for what feels like the millionth time. Ron supposes he could Scourgify each area before he starts on it, but he isn't sure if it might interfere with any possible dark objects in the room and judging by the unquantifiable number of rooms the Manor has, he'll be depleted of magic before he runs out of rooms.

Ron pushes open the next door, expecting another drab, sheet covered, dusty room. Instead, he is faced with Draco Malfoy's smug countenance smiling and waving at him from the mirror. The grimace that comes over Ron's face is instinct, the sneer that follows is on principle.

He's found the prodigious heir's bedroom, he gathers.

Ron stalks over, loud stomps echoing off the walls, and rips the pictures off the mirror. The papers tear and flutter down like confetti. Strips of Parkinson's, Zabini's and Malfoy's faces land on the ground around Ron, smiles torn to pieces.

Ron stares in grim satisfaction at the carnage and kicks at some of the pieces. They float up and sink lazily nearby.

Having soothed his irritance with that pointless bit of destruction, he turns his gaze to the rest of the room. It's the first he's seen that looks somewhat lived in. At least the sheets are not meticulously made up and actually look rumpled like someone has been laying on top of it — Ron notes, with some annoyance, that the sheets are not green nor are they made of silk like he's assumed.

Malfoy seemed like the kind of pompous arse to own silk sheets.

Hope flares up briefly in Ron that it's a sign that the Malfoys aren't as absent as they seem, but a cursory gaze over the rest of the room deflates the thought soon enough. The bookshelves and desk are covered with a fine layer of dust and he's fairly sure if he deigns to touch the bed, his hand will come away filthy.

Ron eyes the nearly finished bottle of firewhiskey on the bedside table in disdain — he doubts it's just for a night cap. He recalls the conversation between Finch and Thompson and scoffs. Perhaps the rumours have a base in truth after all.

Still, he's not here to contemplate the vices of the Malfoy heir and soon Ron is pulling out drawers and sweeping books off their perches none too gently. It occurs to him that Hermione would be appalled to witness his treatment of her precious books. But, he thinks, she's not here to lecture him now, is she?

His lips turn up into a bitter smile and his movements grow rougher, almost violent, as the books fall apart under his grip, seams splitting from cover.

When he finishes, Ron straightens, panting slightly as he swallows dryly, no thanks to all that dust. The room looks like it's just been hit by a storm then swept through by a hurricane. And yet... nothing. Not even an incriminating page of a discreet stash any decent, healthy wizard should own.

Ron snorts in disgust and pivots around on his heel, striding out and slamming the door behind him so hard the hinges rattle in their frame, leaving Draco Malfoy's room behind.

* * *

Tiring of the seemingly endless east wing, Ron makes his way westwards, only partially hopeful that the other wing will provide some change of scenery to the past week's monotony. That his highlight had been Draco Malfoy's room with still nothing to show for it beyond a pile of destroyed photographs is a bitter pill to swallow but Ron isn't about to admit defeat so easily.

When the door he picks out at random reveals a massive study larger than the Gryffindor common room, a tiny grin curls the corner of his mouth before it vanishes abruptly to set in a thin line.

Sweeping a gaze around the room, Ron raises an eyebrow at the well-stocked liquor cabinet at the corner of the room. Like father, like son, he thinks wryly.

Spotting an obnoxiously magnificent mahogany desk — what exactly is Lucius Malfoy compensating for? — he strides quickly over to it. On the desk is a neat stack of parchments anchored down by a solid bronze snake — how bloody typical — paperweight, which Ron promptly removes with a quick swipe of his hand. It falls to the hardwood floor, thudding heavily. Barely batting an eye at the not insignificant dent on the floor, Ron pulls the stack towards him and flips through it, scanning the documents.

The first is an order of several new sets of dress robes from Twilfitt and Tattings that Ron immediately crumples and toss aside, not even wanting to know how much it adds up to. Beneath it is a short list of names, none of which hold any particular significance to Ron other than the fact that they are all pureblood snobs who could stand being taken down a peg or two — this, he pockets, just in case.

He frowns at the short piece of parchment detailing the specifics of a hand-chiselled sarcophagus — not illegal in the slightest but curious since he recalls no obituary announcements from the Malfoys prior to their disappearance. Ron shrugs, figuring that it's probably a replacement for one of the old ones and discards it; he is aware enough to know that families like the Malfoys often have personal family crypts on their lands. Disdain for the common rabble extends beyond the pale shade of death, it seems.

The rest of the stack isn't much better and Ron replaces the last sheet with a huff.

If the stack is any indication of what the patriarch of a wealthy, pureblood family has to deal with on a daily basis then it's no wonder Lucius Malfoy is so grumpy all the time. Ron would have Avada'ed himself, that is if the inanity of it all doesn't get to him first. As grudging as it is, he finds a new understanding of the need of the Malfoy men to always be in the presence of some hard alcohol.

Ron slumps into the high backed chair, absently picking up the snake weight on the floor and juggling it one-handed as he peers around tiredly. He's managed to catch forty winks here and there, but despite all suggestions of it being empty, Ron could never really relax in the Manor, forcefully jerking awake every few hours or so.

Nestled into the chair, the furniture turning out to be far more comfortable than it looked, Ron's head starts to droop as his eyelids grow heavy.

The sound of the weight crashing to the floor startles him and he jumps up, wand already out in a quick draw.

Sensing no intruders, Ron slowly relaxes, taking in the bronze snake lying on its side near the chair's feet and piecing the puzzle pieces together. He rubs a palm heel into his eye, bending down to pick up the offending object and that is when he notices the corner of a parchment peeking out from beneath the thin gap between the bookshelf behind the desk and the floor.

Ignoring the paperweight, Ron reaches out to the paper and gradually eases it out.

The page is full of scribbles — notes, really. Whoever wrote it has the signs of being trained in penmanship, but the lilting script is hurried, like someone rushing to get their thoughts out in writing before they disappear.

His eyes widen as he peruses the page. It's mostly unknown to him, but what little he can make out of it seems to detail some sort of intricate spell work. _Dark_ spell work too, if all the alarms blaring in Ron's head is to be trusted and Ron _trusts_ his judgment implicitly.

This, he realises, isn't the only page.

He whips around to the desk, the paper of notes crinkling in his grip. He tears open the drawers, pulling them out entirely and slamming them down onto the desk top as he frantically rifles through them.

He cries out in triumph when he finds similar notes in matching handwriting, all sandwiched between the pages of a thin, leather bound book, placed at the very bottom of the last drawer.

A growl of disappointment escapes him when he thumbs the book open only to find that it is written in a language and alphabet that he does not recognise. The notes, however, are a different story.

They're likely a translation of the contents of the book — he's almost sure it is.

The trouble is, even with the notes, Ron can't quite make head or tails of the text. The spell work transcribed on the notes is so arcane he's certain that even the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries will have trouble deciphering what it pertains to. But when he reaches the final page, there is no doubt, however, to the purpose of the spell even if he's still not clear _how_ to go about casting it.

It is dark - dark to the very core, yet there is no satisfaction at the fact that he's been right all along. The magic they were seeking is known to be impossible. It could never — has never — work.

But Ron recognises the thread of desperation lacing the scripts in his hands. It is in the blots of ink from where someone held it against the parchment in a too long pause, in the way the words sometimes repeat themselves like the writer is struggling to find the right wording, in the way water drops spread the ink in some places like someone has been crying over it.

Impossible or not, they would have attempted it. The significance of the parchment with the sarcophagus specifics hits him like an avalanche.

Ron sighs and ruffles a hand through his hair, messing it up further, as he ponders where they can possibly have tried to cast a spell like this.

* * *

It occurs to him, too late, that the Malfoys have dungeons in the Manor, as opposed to the normal wine cellars other, more well-adjusted, families would prefer to keep.

It really should have come to him sooner considering that he's spent time in there with Harry, mutually losing their minds over the implications of Hermione's screams.

He runs through half the house, almost tripping down the stairs, in his haste to get to the lower levels. But when he does start to descend under ground level, his steps start to slow and a great reluctance starts to rise in him.

Ron flinches instinctively when the surroundings begins to get all too familiar to him. Still, he steels his shoulders and carry on, concentrating on putting a foot ahead of the other, one at a time. He manages to get some ways into the dungeons until a musty, just this side off rancid, smell invades his senses and he freezes in his tracks.

Stiffly, he turns to his left, then his right. The smell is closer there. Ron swallows thickly and rather gingerly, pushes the heavy door on his right inwards. It swings open quietly, somehow making the situation more eerie than before.

"Bugger me sideways," Ron whispers as the sight and smell hits him in full force.

Unwilling to walk in more than a few steps further into the stone chamber, Ron fumbles briefly with the notes and the book he's brought down with him. A softly muttered Lumos lights up the scene and he holds both wand and notes out like a shield in front of him as he squints at the barely visible pattern underneath all the dried blood.

The visible parts of the arcane circle drawn on the floor are an identical match to the smaller one on one of the pages.

It takes him a few tries before he manages to summon more than a wisp of his Patronus form. A dog comes bounding out of the tip of his wand, no longer a Jack Russell Terrier but a Bloodhound, changed since the days of the war. The Bloodhound gazes up at him, long face pulled forlornly downwards as it sits on its hind legs and awaits his order patiently.

"Tell Harry," Ron says, voice cracking at the last syllable. "Tell Harry to come to Malfoy Manor. Something's happened here. I think they were trying to... But the magic... It's not possible. Harry, it's not looking good."

The Bloodhound cocks its silvery head at him before it gets up, nuzzles Ron's hand and trots away to deliver his message. The absence of the warm light following the disappearance of his Patronus leaves Ron chilled to his bones.

* * *

Hermione gazes at Malfoy Manor, looming above them, with a calm that unnerves Draco.

He's learned to fear — or at least worry about — this calm, unsure of how Hermione would emerge from it. When she turns and smiles softly at him, Draco relaxes, the tension draining out of his shoulders and returns a tender smile back.

But as he tears his eyes away from Hermione to look at what once used to be home, a deep set frown appears between his brows.

In the space of less than two months, Malfoy Manor seems to have simply wilted away. Where once the structure stands proud and pristine, it's now shrouded in a thick air of abandonment, dust and dirt marring the outside walls. With no one to trim them, wild vines creep up the sides of the house while the bushes around the house shrivel up from neglect.

Hermione reaches down and slips a hand into his, giving him a firm squeeze but doesn't urge him beyond that.

A good ten minutes spent in silence, save for the howling of the wind, pass them by before Draco finally takes a step forwards with Hermione following closely, softly announcing, "I'm ready."

Hermione nods, and hand in hand, they enter Draco's childhood home.

* * *

"Do you remember what happened?" Hermione asks as they climb the stairs to the west wing.

Draco shakes his head. "Beyond what I've already told you? No," he says. "When I woke up, I was alone. There was only Mitzy there."

"Mitzy is... your elf?" Hermione asks. Draco hums in confirmation before something occurs to him and he turns a wary gaze to Hermione.

"Are you going to lecture me about house elf rights?" he asks. Hermione blinks in what appears to be genuine confusion and smiles mildly at Draco.

"Now why would I do that?" she says and Draco's eyebrows shoot so high up, it's a wonder they're still on his face.

"Because of spew and all that?" he questions, bewildered.

"S.P.E.W.," Hermione corrects automatically but doesn't seem perturbed otherwise. "In hindsight, it was silly. The Hogwarts elves never did warm to me after that."

"You're not silly," Draco protests but Hermione waves it away dismissively.

"I didn't say I was silly," Hermione says. "I said the idea of S.P.E.W. was silly. You can't help people who don't want help and I forced myself into it, thinking that if they just saw how _wrong_ it was — but it's not to them, is it?"

"Dobby..." Draco starts to say but trails off, head hung low and cheeks flushing pink.

"A bit of an exception, isn't he?" Hermione says. "Well, your father was also a piece of work."

In the distant past, that statement would have made Draco bristle and would have caused a massive row with insults and hexes being traded back and forth. Now, Draco just mutters, "He doesn't know any better."

"That does seem to be the case with most wizards," Hermione agrees.

"Your legislation hurts our kind," Hermione mimics without any real malice. "Oh well, that's just wizards being wizards. They don't know any better." She snorts at her own imitation and shakes her head lightly.

"I could fill a dictionary on the things wizards don't know any better about," she says.

"Like vampires," Draco says quietly. Hermione nods curtly. "Like ghouls," she says.

"Not your type at any rate," she adds after a thoughtful silence. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out that the Weasley's resident attic ghoul is actually a father of five and is a productive member of society with an honest job at the toothpaste factory. Did anyone care to find out?"

"No, the answer is no," Hermione supplies, glancing sideways at Draco. "Wizards are a remarkably self-centred bunch."

"Like Muggles," Draco says, eliciting a short bark of laughter from Hermione.

"More alike than they'd care to admit," she says and wipes irritably at her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Draco asks, concern colouring his tone.

"Dust or eyelash," she says as she blinks her eyes rapidly, tears leaking out from the sides of her left eye.

"Let me see," Draco says, stepping a rung up so he's level with her and gently grips her cheeks between his hands as he nears his head to hers to peer at her eye.

"Step away from her!" a voice bellows from beneath and the pair startle, foreheads knocking together as they both frantically try to locate the source of the intruder. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!"

"Get away from him, Hermione!" the intruder screams and Hermione's eyes grow wide as she swivels to see Ron, standing on the bottom of the stairs, wand held out menacingly at Draco.

"Ron," she whispers as Draco stills beside her.

"He's dangerous, 'Mione!" Ron screams. "He's not human!"

"How do you-" Hermione says but Ron can't hear her as he continues to yell, "It's not supposed to work. It's supposed to be impossible! Whatever he is, don't believe his lies!"

"Ron," she says, shaking her head as her hand seeks Draco's as his breaths start to come in short bursts. "You have no idea-"

Ron snarls and runs up the stairs, one arm reaching out to Hermione while the other flings a spell at Draco. A white light bursts from the tip of his wand just as Hermione swings hers in a circle in front of the both of them, bringing it slashing downwards as she roars, "Protego!"

Time seems to slow to an excruciating detail as a look of surprise, anger and hurt crosses Ron's face while the purple light bounces harmlessly off Hermione's shield. Suddenly Ron is being propelled backwards by some unseen force and Hermione can see very clearly the contortion of each corded muscle on his neck as he's swept off his feet, jaw working mutely and free falling towards the very bottom of the stair case.

"You will not harm Master Draco!"

Ron lands into a crumpled heap, limbs splayed about like a discarded ragdoll.

Hermione knows she heard the snap, but doesn't want to believe it. She shoves a fist into her mouth, biting down hard to stem the howl that wants to rip out of her. There is a hollowness in the cavity of her chest and if her heart still beats, she knows it would be clenching painfully.

"Mitzy... Mitzy didn't mean to..." wails a tiny figure balled up besides Ron's body.

"Hermione, Hermione!" Draco says fiercely but it is muffled like she's trying to hear him through water. Draco is shaking her but it feels strange, like her body isn't hers and her mind is somewhere far away.

"Hermione!" he cries out, and the grey eyes, filled with worry, that bores into her, snaps her out of that detachment.

"Mitzy didn't mean to," wails the elf loudly and Draco tugs her along with him, hurrying down to where the elf and Ron are.

"Mitzy only wants for man to not harm Master," Mitzy sobs, thumping her head painfully against the floor.

Draco looks uncertainly between Hermione and Mitzy, torn between who to go to. Hermione pushes him towards Mitzy, nudging him forwards when he hesitates. She hugs herself as she watches him crouch in front of the elf, gently placing a hand between the elf's forehead and the floor and easing the tiny elf so she's sitting upright.

"Master... Mitzy tries," she sobs wretchedly. "Mitzy tries looking for Master, but Mitzy is not finding Master. Mitzy fails to do her duty proper."

"Mitzy, Mitzy, it's not your fault," Draco hushes, wiping away the tears and snot running down the elf's face.

"Master... Master is too kind," the elf sobs, rubbing vigorously at her eyes. "But Master is not knowing. Mistress asks Mitzy to care for Master and Mitzy is failed."

"My... my mother?" Draco says, sucking in a sharp breath. "Is she...?" Mitzy nods timidly and breaks into another fresh wave of tears. Draco's fingers clenches into a fist momentarily before loosening.

"Father?" he asks. The tiny elf nods again.

A moment of silence, balanced on a knife's edge, comes over Draco and Hermione is about to take a step forward to his side when Draco waves her back and turns to Mitzy.

"Mitzy, you have to listen to me," he says evenly.

"Mitzy, take the others and leave," Draco says and this shocks the elf into an abrupt silence as she stares owlishly at Draco.

"The Malfoy family is no more," Draco says and though his voice holds strong, there is a slight tremble to his arms as he supports the elf's weight. "This is my last order to all of you. Leave and don't return."

A broken sob wrenches out of Mitzy and Draco is gathering her to stand with one hand as he unwinds his scarf with the other. He shoves the scarf into the elf's unresisting hands and her sobs increase in intensity. "This is for you. All of you. Keep safe. Please."

Clutching Draco's scarf tightly to her chest, Mitzy weeps, reaching out one tiny hand to Draco. She cups his cheeks and wordlessly, Draco draws her into his arms and hugs her.

"Thank you," he whispers. "Go." And with a soft pop, Mitzy is gone.

Hermione walks up to Draco, still crouching on the floor, and he wraps his arms around her legs, burying his face into her soft stomach, his erratic breaths heating her skin.

Eventually, he lets go, pulling himself up to stand and stares down at Ronald Weasley's broken body.

"Draco, you will not eat him," she says and Draco notes the way she is looking resolutely at himself and only him.

"I wasn't about to," he says and she nods absently. A sudden drop in pressure, very weak but present nonetheless, has Draco inhaling sharply and snapping his head towards Hermione.

"We have to leave, now," Draco says, voice low and fingers twitching.

"But we can't-" she says, doe eyed and shaking her head slightly. "We can't leave him here like this."

"We have to," Draco insists. "Someone's here, Hermione. We have to go, now."

"But-"

"Please," Draco interrupts, dropping his hands to her waist where his fingers twitch, twitch, twitch against her skin.

Without another word, Hermione turns on the spot, and with a crack like thunder, they disapparate from Malfoy Manor.

* * *

 **A/N: I have an exam coming up, so there won't be an update for either this or Dying of the Light next week. Updates should resume the week after, but chances are there will be another gap after that because Christmas and holidays. If anyone is panicking that this will get abandoned, don't. I have a vested interest in seeing this to the end, which is coming soon, very soon.**

 **As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" will help.**


	14. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 13

**A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated soon after this.**

* * *

Harry rubs a shaking hand over his sweat-lined face. The taste of vomit lingers in the back of his throat, yet still the nausea won't go away.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to take gulping breaths through his mouth but another wave hits him and he lurches forwards and hugs the toilet bowl, gagging on the bitter taste of bile. There is white dancing on the edge of his vision as he heaves and heaves, stomach muscles clenching in protest.

He'd been running himself ragged the past week but he swears he had been fine, that is till this morning.

The funeral is today.

Harry moans and ducks his head further into the toilet bowl.

He had been the one to find Ron, broken beyond repair like a toy some careless child had discarded after having had his fun. A snapped neck, the report had determined — no curses, no hexes, no spells. Harry had even personally combed the surrounding areas and found no real suggestions of a duel. With no evidence suggesting otherwise it was tempting to let the matter rest and think that all it had been was an accident — fated, unfortunate — until he had checked Ron's wand on a whim.

The last spell Ron had cast was Sectumsempra.

Guilt prickles at him as he remembers how he dismissed the bloodhound's message as just another sign of Ron's increasing obsession with the missing Malfoys. He took his time finishing up some paperwork for Basil before getting to the Manor and now Ron is dead and it's all his fault.

He screws his eyes shut against the image of a hysterical Molly and grim-faced Arthur as he relayed the news of their youngest son's — his _almost brother's_ — death. They believe what is told them about the circumstance of Ron's death and if Harry has any say in it, he'd spare them the extenuating details he'd discovered. But no matter how much he tries to shield the family from further pain he knows that it doesn't change the fact that he should have been there.

The door creaks open and Harry catches Luna's scent before he feels her slip her arm around his waist, sitting herself down on the tiled floor beside him. Harry pulls away, refusing her comfort, believing that he isn't deserving of it, but Luna holds fast and doesn't relinquish her gentle but firm grip.

After some half-hearted, futile, struggling, Harry relents and allows Luna to lean against him, though he clenches his fist and beats down the urge to hold her close. Thoughts of self-loathing and disgust towards his perceived weak-will marches through his head until Luna lands a gentle hand against his cheek and he is startled out of that swirling vortex of hatred and shame.

"Stop, Harry," she says and Harry closes his eyes as she draws his face to her, already rejecting the soft compassion he knows he'll see in her expression.

"Stop," she says again and Harry can feel the flutter of her fingers on his chin, caressing the hard line of his jaw. She is waiting, he knows, but he cannot face her yet.

"Don't tell me it's not my fault," Harry says, low and gruff, the words scratching at his throat. He clears his throat once but it doesn't help so he leaves it be.

"You've always been stubborn," Luna says and Harry chuckles without much humour, turning away from her.

"I can't protect anyone," Harry says, voice flat and dull. "Not Hermione, not Ron, not Sirius. Not even Hedwig."

"It is not your responsibility," Luna says simply, not mincing her words.

"It is," Harry insists, hissing.

"The world can lie itself prostate at your feet and it still will not be your responsibility to protect it," Luna says and rises to her feet, leaving Harry to blink, dumbfounded, at her.

"You, Ron and Hermione like to think yourselves protector of all and sundry," she continues, her tone still in that airy quality but with the slightest tinge of something that has him sitting straighter. "When really, you're nothing more but mere children."

"I'll be outside," she says, leaning down and giving him a kiss on the forehead and an affectionate pat on the cheek before straightening to leave. "Come out when you're ready."

Harry stares at Luna's spot beside him, long after she's vacated it and closed the door behind her. He blinks, suddenly realising that his stomach has stop rolling and the nausea has dissipated. Standing shakily on wobbly legs like a new born deer, Harry flushes the toilet, casts a charm to get rid of the sour musk of vomit and steps out of the bathroom to Luna who smiles tenderly at him when she sees him.

* * *

The funeral is a quiet affair.

Harry almost bursts out laughing at the absurd thought of the impossible made possible situation of a herd of Weasleys gathering in silence. He barely manages to reign in the bound to be hysterical laughter and has to slap a hand over his mouth to smother any possible sounds that may emerge.

Luna gives him a brief look of amusement, tilting her head to the side, before returning her attention to the sombre proceedings.

That sobers him up pretty quickly and he returns to the grim brooding he's wallowed in previously.

When Kinglsey asks him up to say a few words, he shakes his head and declines politely. Molly turns in her seat to look at him sadly while Arthur, permanently stone-faced, nods in understanding. A feeling of wretchedness spikes up from Harry's gut and he looks away so they will not see the guilt that crosses his face then.

Luna loops an arm through his and tugs at him till he leans his head against her shoulder. This close to her, he can sniff the talcum powder on her skin as he lets the vibrations from her soft humming wash over him.

When Dawlish stands up to speak, all rough edges and inarticulate speech, Harry turns his face and buries it in the crook of Luna's neck.

She makes no comments when his tears seep through her shirt, only reaching around to rub him soothingly on his back like a mother would a child.

* * *

Harry walks like a condemned man from the funeral site to the Burrow where Kingsley along with Bill are ushering everyone into for the reception.

More than once, several people try to approach him, no doubt to offer meaningless consolations and empty platitudes but Harry ducks and weaves around them expertly, not wanting to speak, not trusting himself to not make a scene. The Weasleys have been through enough.

With Luna running interference, Harry manages to get to the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief as he sees only familiar faces in the space. In the heart of the kitchen, the table where they've shared many dinners around — _Ron laughing, slinging mash potatoes with his fork_ — is piled high with more food than Harry has ever seen in one spot. So much so, that the table seems to sag in the middle from all that weight. Molly has outdone herself and Harry has to stop and take a deep breath before he can go on.

Muttering something about 'too skinny' Molly shoves a plate into Harry's hand and pushes him towards the table before turning her attention to the next person to come through the door, a smile — with just the slightest hint of a tremble — plastered on her face.

Harry automatically spoons the food onto his plate, not quite noticing what he's taking and mechanically moves away to give way to the others when he feels that the weight on his hand is adequate.

He is sure that the bite of shepherd's pie — Ron's favourite — that he's forced himself to shovel into his mouth is delicious but all he can taste in his mouth is ash.

It is going well at least, he thinks as he glances around. And it is until the clock hands that Harry has been keeping an eye on — Fred and Ron's pointing always to home — to make it seem like he's preoccupied with something, shows Percy's hand moving and rotating, at last, to home.

George, who must have spied his older brother's presence from his hidey hole upstairs comes running down, two steps at a time, snarling and spitting like a madman.

Percy is not one foot over the threshold before George is flying into him and socks him across the jaw, screaming and shouting nonsense like the man is the one responsible for their younger brother's death. For a moment, the entire household seems to be suspended in shock as the two brothers tussle on the living room floor and then chaos erupts as Molly wails at them to stop, Arthur howls and the rest of the brothers try to separate the two.

At any other time, under any other circumstances, Harry would have been the first to march over and jump into the fray, but in this particular moment, he stands back like a coward and near shrivels from the overwhelming guilt.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry slips out the back door and runs towards the Apparition point, deftly disapparating as soon as he reaches it.

* * *

It takes Harry a couple of weeks following that fiasco to gather enough courage to go to Ron's flat.

Meanwhile, he's been giving vague excuses to Basil that he knows hasn't worked with the older man but because Basil is an actual _good_ person, he doesn't pry and allows Harry his secrets.

Intellectually, Harry knows it is wrong and completely off course but he can't help but think that perhaps if he hadn't been so caught up with the vampire case and Basil's company then maybe Ron wouldn't have died and all this could have just been a nasty nightmare. But all that thinking does is perpetuate a vicious cycle of guilt and shame that only adds to his reluctance to go to Ron's flat and pack up what's left of his belongings.

In the end, it is the book with those strange notes that Ron had in his possession at the time of his death that compels Harry's change of heart. He hasn't had the chance — hadn't wanted — to read through it yet, but he's running out of excuses.

Dredging up what scraps of Gryffindor bravery he has left; Harry murmurs his intention to Luna at breakfast. Somehow, voicing it out loud seems to cement the decision for him. Now, there is no more escaping. The unexpectedly sad look that briefly crosses Luna's features then unnerves him more than any of her supposed oddity and he hastily drops a quick peck on her cheek before flooing, for possibly the last time, to Ron's flat.

Harry had known that Ron's obsession ran deep — he just hadn't had a clue how deep. Now he does, as he stares up at the sprawling wall with its massive, intricate web of strings.

Harry closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. He sinks down to the floor, keeping Ron's madness in full view and slowly pulls out the book, notes crinkling as he did so.

Slowly, like he fears it might bite him, Harry flips open the pages.

He frowns at the foreign script and turns his attention to the notes instead. His frown deepens as he reads on.

David Copperfield.

Sharp, unholy, teeth.

Draco Malfoy. Malfoy Manor.

He looks at the notes spread out in front of him and rubs his face wearily. It's not possible, Ron's message had said and normally he wouldn't be wrong. But Harry remembers the weight of the Resurrection Stone in his hand and knows that it is not strictly true.

It all makes sense now, in a way.

There's always, _always_ a price in trying to cheat death. The Malfoys did the deed and now Ron paid the price. He tries not to think about if Hermione paid the price as well — according to the wall, Ron, at least, seemed to think so.

He eyes the notes and tries to block out what he's read.

The worst thing is, even knowing what the spell does and what it requires, Harry catches himself mentally trying to picture where the arcane circle should go in Ron's flat.

He buries his face into his palms but without Luna's scent and the warm, comforting feel of her presence next to him, Harry is lost and the gaping hole in him that opened when Hermione disappeared, widens, and he has to struggle to not choke on his gulping sobs.

* * *

Draco's fingers twitch madly as he runs his hands through his already dishevelled hair again and again.

It has been three and a half weeks. The longest either of them has gone without.

He can feel it, _that darkness_ , clawing, howling, at the edge of his mind and that is nothing to say of the hunger boiling in his depths. If he feels it this acutely, then he knows Hermione is too.

He knocks on their — her — bedroom door again. No answer. There hasn't been an answer for five days now, not since she claimed exhaustion and secluded herself into their room. She'd locked and warded the room — he wouldn't be able to get in even if he possessed the strength to break the door down.

Cursing himself once again for the failure that he is, wand nothing but a piece of eye candy, he paces, worried and tensed like a caged animal.

He should have known, should have seen that Hermione would end up like this. He knew better, of course, when she told him she was fine but he had also been the one who hadn't pressured her when she refused to go out. Like the fool he was, he'd let her crawl into his lap and snuggle against him, believing that his presence would help.

It hadn't and now she's wasting away and he can't do anything about it.

No matter who he is to her now, he can never take the place of Ronald Weasley, let alone the other one.

Draco smiles bitterly to himself. The other one would know what to say, he would know how to coax Hermione out of her numbed grief, he would return the radiant smile to her face — it wouldn't be immediate, but he'd do a far better job than Draco ever could.

It is all Draco could do to stop himself from kicking a hole into the wall. What bloody use would that be?

"Hermione," he says, voice shaking, as he leans his forehead against the cool wooden door. He knocks and pauses — no answer. He flattens his palm against the door, fingers fluttering uncontrollably on the surface and breathes in deep.

"Hermione," Draco tries again. He exhales slowly into the silence that meets him.

"I'm going out," he says, and then he adds hastily, "I'll be back." He's not sure, at this point, who the assurance is meant for, not sure that she is even listening.

"I can't-" he says, voice cracking. He takes a breath to compose himself and attempts the words again. "I can't let you do this to yourself. I know you feel it."

"I'm not going to let it reclaim you," he says. "I - If you won't come out, then I'll bring them to you."

No sound comes from the other side of the door. He doesn't expect any.

"For what it's worth," he says softly, tracing the pattern carved into the door. "I'm sorry."

"I'm the last person you'll want to hear that from," he says. "But I am sorry."

Giving one last glance towards the closed door, Draco turns away, goes down the stairs and out into the bitter, cold night.

* * *

 **A/N: The response to the last chapter has been mind-blowing! You guys are the best.**

 **There will be no update next week, resuming again in the new year, not so much due to the holidays themselves but more because work is trying to kill me and I have to squeeze in my final projects among all those extra holiday shifts. I apologise for this, and if it's any consolation, Dying of the Light will also be updated today. Soon, after this, in fact. A reminder, if you're not aware already, that Dying of the Light is the parallel prequel to this and will contain answers to certain questions raised in Flesh and Blood.**

 **Happy Holidays to all of you!**

 **As always, reviews are the lifeblood of authors. Even a simple "I like it!" will sustain our withering existence.**

 **I can be found on tumblr as elantil-arcacia. Feel free to chat me up there.**


	15. Flesh and Blood: Extended - Chapter 14

**A/N: Dying of the Light will be updated either tomorrow or the day after.**

* * *

For all their excursions into the world outside, it is the first time since his panicked run through the streets of London that Draco has to face it alone.

In Wizarding London, things are far simpler — there's basically Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley and not much else. All the things everyone will ever need will be either up one street or down the other. It's compact, familiar — _safe_. Or at least as safe as any place could be with a bunch of trigger happy magic wielding lunatics.

Perhaps — in retrospect — there are considerably less dangers in the Muggle world but it doesn't stop Draco from sticking to the niches where shadows dominate and obscure.

He waits and watches as people mill about, oblivious.

A boy of sixteen — a child really — approaches his spot, performing little stunts on his skateboard. Faint music blares from where devices called headphones, Draco remembers, are nestled into the teen's ears.

Draco shrinks back and retreats further into the corners. The boy pops the gum he is blowing and breezes pass, wheels rolling against gravel.

Too young. Maybe in a few years' time. Draco is patient but he cannot wait forever.

He turns his attention back to the streets.

Too old. Handicapped. Has a family. Too innocent. He lets them all pass him by, unscathed.

There is always a reason — an excuse — that he comes up with that makes him look the other way. This, he thinks, is what he truly is without Hermione — useless, a failure. Such is the cruelty of the gods that the irony now is that her survival is dependent on his success. He cannot _afford_ to fail.

Draco clenches his fists and his eyes harden as they fall on a stooped figure, shambling into his path.

Swathed in filthy clothes three sizes too big, Draco can't tell what gender the figure is supposed to be — not that it matters, but 'he' or 'she' sounds infinitely better than 'it'. It's hard enough keeping in mind that they are people too regardless of what the wizarding world likes to classify them as.

The figure clutches a worn cardboard with the grimy fingers of one hand and tugs a ratty shawl tighter around his or her body with the other, shivering slightly. Draco can barely make out the words written on the cardboard. He can just see 'hungry' and 'any help' but anything else is too faint or small for him to read from his vantage point.

It's late into the night and other than the beggar, no one else is about. Draco has wasted far too much time hesitating to wait any longer. He steps out, a pale figure emerging from the shadows like a scene straight out of a bad horror movie.

The tramp, preoccupied in his or her own little world, pays Draco no heed.

Draco slips into step behind the tramp, lithe and silent.

She — Draco can now tell at this distance — doesn't even know what hit her. The rock, bloody on one side, falls from Draco's hand to the ground with a dull thud just as she slumps to her knees, cardboard dropped, and falls forwards, face down.

Hermione would call it a waste as blood trickles from the beggar's right temple, but she isn't there and Draco has not got many alternatives. The woman at his feet is still breathing. Her chest, covered as it under all the layers, rises and falls shallowly at alternate intervals.

It won't matter for much longer. All Draco cares about is that she doesn't wake up anytime soon and make things more difficult than they need to be.

He bends forwards, pulling the unconscious woman up by her arms and crouches down as he struggles to get her over his shoulder. Her weight, which amounts to barely anything, doesn't bother him but her limbs are going everywhere and Draco gets hit in the mouth by an elbow or two before he manages to get her into a position he can comfortably carry.

He would curse his lack of magic — he still tries and if he's lucky, an Accio will work one time out of ten though not without leaving him feeling drained after — but it's already becoming too repetitive and even Draco can only stand his own whining so many times.

With one arm looped around the woman's middle, Draco straightens, the woman slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The hard part, at least, is over. Draco shifts his gaze to the sky where the gibbous moon hangs. He's lucky, he supposes, that he's just missed the full moon by a few days. Even at this hour, London never truly sleeps and he'd have enough trouble getting the woman home without the full extent of the moonlight shining down and exposing him to prying eyes.

He sighs softly and shifts the woman once more before taking a step towards home.

"Police," says a deep voice behind him and Draco freezes. "Put the woman down and let her go."

Slowly, Draco pivots on the spot, the woman still on his shoulder, to face the voice directly, not keen to have his back towards a potential danger.

Instead of the usual blue uniform Draco has seen these 'police' sporting, the man appears to be wearing some sort of khaki coloured trench coat. The other man carefully holds up both his arms, palms open in a universal language of intending no harm. Draco narrows his eyes at the man regardless.

"You're not wearing the uniform," Draco says in an accusing tone.

"I'm a plain clothes officer. We don't all have to wear the uniforms," the man explains patiently. Still with his hands held up, he nods in the direction of the unconscious tramp. "She needs medical attention."

The smell of her blood wafts up to Draco and he unconsciously tightens his hold on her, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. The calm way the man's eyes observes Draco's every movement both unnerves and annoys him.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Draco says if only to get the man to stop looking so closely at him.

"Yes, you can," the man says slowly, like he's placating a child. Draco scowls. "Just let her go."

"You'll never understand," Draco says, shaking his head. He's not entirely sure what he's still standing there for, wasting his breath talking to this 'policeman'. He doesn't have time for this. _Hermione_ doesn't have time for this. "I need to do this."

"I think I do," the man says with such confidence that it causes the first beads of unease to settle in Draco's gut. "Son, you don't have to keep hurting people."

When Draco says nothing, the man continues, "There are ways to get what you need without killing them."

Draco looks up sharply at the man, breath catching and he demands, "Wait, what do you think I need?"

"Blood," and the way the man says it is so casual, so nonchalant that anyone would think that they were merely discussing the weather. Draco recoils involuntarily at the man's assumption. The unease grows. He could run, _should_ run, instead he's rooted to the spot.

"I'm not a- I'm not..." Draco tries and fails to string the right words together. Somehow or other, this muggle _knows_. Not everything, but he knows _something_. Draco straightens further, the infamous Malfoy steel hardening his back. "You don't know what I am; you don't know what I have to do."

"We can help you," the man replies. "Let us help you."

Draco's eyes instantly narrows. "Who're 'we'?"

"He's a... My partner," the man says and Draco knows he hasn't imagined the slight pause in the man's sentence. "My partner at work. We can help you."

Draco's breath solidifies in his lungs. His sharp grey eyes darts around, frantic, like a deer caught in a trap. "Is he here?!"

So occupied is he by the thought that this is an ambush, by the fear of some outsider knowing of his existence — of Hermione's or at least what she is — that he doesn't notice that the 'policeman' has been gradually inching closer to him till it was far too late.

The man makes a grab for the woman just as Draco flinches from their sudden proximity. She slips easily out of Draco's loosened grip just as Draco stumbles backwards, trying not to fall to the ground.

With a speed unbefitting his age or size, the man manages to put the woman down and lunge at Draco before the latter can fully regain his balance. Unfortunately for the 'policeman', even caught off guard, Draco is still faster thanks to his ingrained Seeker reflexes and honed hunting skills from the past months.

Draco twists his body, deftly moving out of the path of the man's tackle. Quickly, he spins around and before the man can regain his lost momentum, loops an arm around the man's neck, pulling him up into a chokehold.

With one arm he squeezes, maintaining his iron grip, while the other searches frantically through his pockets until it comes to grasp firmly around smoothen wood. The man claws at Draco's arm as he puts more pressure into the hold and prays fervently that it'll work, please _Merlin_ , let it work.

For a brief moment, he panics at the beginnings of the sensation of being sucked through a tube, a distant memory of something going wrong surfacing in his mind, but it's swiftly replaced with relief as he realises that his prayer has been answered with a jarringly loud crack.

* * *

Harry is half asleep, caught between the edges of consciousness and blissful empty sleep, when the first tones of 'God Save the Queen' jangle sharply through the quiet night air. He and Luna stirs, him cradled in her arms, and he sits up, eyes squinting at the flashing screen on his bedside table. Luna moans something incomprehensible as he distractedly pets her face and whispers for her to go back to sleep.

It takes him a bit of fumbling before he manages to stab the right button to pick up the call. It's time, he thinks idly, to change the song on the ringtone.

"Harry?!" a frayed female voice comes over the speaker. Dread, thick and sticky, pools at the bottom of his stomach and a fresh wave of nausea hits Harry. He swallows thickly, already tasting the sour acid at the back of his throat. He gives a side glance at Luna's side of the bed and carefully, so as to not disturb her further, pulls back the covers and manoeuvres himself out of bed.

"I'm here, Diane, hold on," he whispers, cupping his palm around his mouth and the phone as he lightly pads across the room, trying his best to keep the creaking of the floorboards to a minimum.

With a quiet click, he closes the door behind him.

"What's wrong?" he asks into the phone, rubbing a hand over his face, only just now realising that he has left his glasses on the bedside table.

"It's Basil. He hasn't returned," she says, harried words spilling out. "He never stays out till this late. And even if he did, he'd call."

Harry screws his eye shut, trying to comprehend the words that she's telling him.

"I don't know who else to go to, Harry," she says, all wretched and timid and guilt pulls at Harry for not being quick enough to offer her his reassurance, for not being with Basil like he's supposed to be. "I called the office; no one on the night shift's seen him."

"I'll find him, Diane, I promise," Harry says. For a while, it is silent down the other end of the phone then he hears a deep intake of breath and Diane says, "Thank you, Harry."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"Still," she says. Harry nods even though she can't see it.

"I'll bring him home," he says. Diane doesn't acknowledge his second promise, merely solicits from him a notification on any updates and bids him goodbye, almost as if she doesn't quite believe him.

* * *

Draco stares down, chest heaving from exertion, at the man he left sprawled, unconscious, on the living room sofa, the tan trench coat fanned out around him like a particularly dull peacock.

Bringing the man here to their haven may well prove to be a mistake but letting him go ceased to be an option the minute he let on that he knew more than he should. To ponder the whys and the hows this obvious muggle know about anything remotely magical is a worry that Draco doesn't want or need on top of other far more pressing concerns.

Draco can only hope that the presence of a warm-blooded, living food source will help stir Hermione's dormant survival instincts.

That she hasn't yet emerged from her room out of concern or curiosity is bad enough. If bringing Weasley back to life would return Hermione to him, he would do it in a heartbeat, but that knowledge is beyond his reach so he hopes — wishes — that what he's done is enough.

He checks once, twice, thrice to make sure the man isn't going to be stirring anytime soon and dubiously satisfied with his own judgment, Draco leaves the room to go upstairs.

He considers knocking but the prospect of another silent door being his answer has him stopping, fist raised halfway, and he wrenches his arm down, forcing it to lie stiff on his side.

"Hermione?" he tries.

"I'm back," he says and he can't help the accusation — do you care? Do you even know I was gone? — that seeps into the words. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and leans his forehead on the cool wood.

"You need to feed," he says. "I brought you someone." He pauses awhile to let the words sink in, for her benefit or his, he can't be sure — not that it matters much.

"Will you come out?" he mumbles, knowing the answer but needing to ask anyway. "Hermione? Please?"

Draco lightly pushes off from the door with his fingertips. Even he can't claim to love the sound of his own voice that much and he likes his own pathetic, pitiful pleading even less.

"I'll- We'll be downstairs," he says as a last ditch attempt and heads down to sit in comparatively companionable silence with a man that he plans to eat.

It sounds like the beginnings of a terrible joke but Draco finds he isn't quite in the mood for laughter.

He situates himself on an armchair and watches the hypnotic steady rise and fall of the man's chest. Draco can almost trick himself into the lull that everything is fine and all is well with the world until comes a loud crack like a car backfiring from somewhere outside and the illusion shatters to pieces all around him.

* * *

 **A/N: And how's the New Year treating y'all?**

 **As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" helps.**


	16. Final Chapter

**A/N: Dying of the Light is also updated. Enjoy.**

* * *

Draco peers out the window through the tiny hole he made in the paper covers.

He can't even muster the surprise anymore when he sees who exactly it is lurking outside their haven, skulking around, probably thinking that he's doing a good job of being sneaky while lumbering about like the giant oaf that he is.

He had hoped that the sound is indeed just from a car backfiring — the first time he'd heard that, he'd jump so high it had been a barrel of laughs for Hermione — but the universe has a habit of turning his hopes and dreams into ash lately. So really, why should this turn out to be any different?

Straightening, Draco deftly smoothens the paper back over the hole and twists around to look at the man on their sofa.

There, he supposes, is the explanation as to why this muggle knows so much.

Draco can't decide if it's fate or irony that brought them all to this point. Whichever it is, he certainly did himself no favours by helping it along with his own less than stellar decision making process.

A sharp inhalation followed by a muttered groan coming from direction of the sofa only serves to reinforce that unwelcomed thought.

Somewhere above him, the pipes rattle — the house is not new and has been known to make the odd noise once every often — and as he tears his eyes away from the ceiling, he is reminded that he's no longer in this alone. He'll be damned if he allowed Hermione to be dragged into the mess he's created.

Draco strides over to the sofa and before the man's eyes can even fully open, Draco hauls him up into a sitting position. Gathering the man's wrists together, Draco pulls the man's hands behind his back and secures it with a piece of rope he's scrounged up earlier.

"Your partner's outside," Draco says conversationally as the man blinks groggily back at him. "Of course, if I had known your work partner is a wizard, I would have killed you right there and then."

"It's a bit too late for that now," Draco says, yanking on the rope a little too hard, prompting a grunt from the man. "But let's hope the sight of you is enough to curb his foolhardy Gryffindor tendencies, shall we?"

The man gurgles, as if he is trying to clear his throat but failing, his eyes still glazed over and Draco sighs.

"Believe me," he mutters as he drags the man up to his feet. "This isn't how I want it to be."

Draco loops an arm around the man as he sways dangerously, steadying him, and with the other hand, pulls out his wand to keep it trained on the man.

Useless it may be, but nobody else need know that.

He awkwardly manoeuvres the both of them to the door, giving the other man a jab with the wand now and then so he'd move in the proper direction. As he reaches out around the man to wrap one large hand around the cold doorknob, his traitorous thoughts turn to Hermione and he wishes he had just a little bit more time with her.

* * *

To say that Harry had no game plan rushing in is an understatement. The truth is he hasn't been thinking at all. Soon as the scry confirmed Basil's location, Harry had blindly apparated straight to the spot on the map, the image of Ron's glassy eyes and his unnaturally angled head still fresh in his mind.

It is completely reckless and ill-advised and if Basil had known, there is no doubt that the man would not hesitate to chew him out about it. The odds are stacked against him. He has no information about the situation, no clue about what had happened and not even the slightest idea as to who or what he's dealing against.

Which is why it seemed a perfectly reasonable and even great idea to dive for the bushes the moment he hears the door creaking open.

"Potter, you can stop skulking around the bushes and come out," comes an all too familiar drawl that raises all of Harry's warning bells. "I know you're here."

"Bollocks!" Harry curses perhaps a tad too loudly as his foot snags one of the roots on the damn vegetation and he half stumbles his way out from amidst the plants. "Bloody shrubbery..."

"Malfoy," he says, narrowing his eyes at the way said cowardly prat is holding Basil out like a human shield. If his wand wasn't made of such sturdy material, it would have snapped in half with the way he is gripping it.

"Of course this one would belong to you," Malfoy says, gesturing irritably at Basil with his wand and Harry has to clench his fist to stop himself from casting Malfoy into oblivion. "It's just my luck."

"Basil," Harry says, ignoring the craven bastard and looking straight at Basil, searching for any signs of injury. "Are you alright?"

"Ye- Yeah," Basil croaks, nodding feebly. Harry breathes a sigh of relief, one that is cut short by the rude snort from the git behind Basil.

"Yes, yes, what a touching reunion," Malfoy sneers. "But as they say, the ball is still in my court, Potter."

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry says between gritted teeth.

"What everybody wants," Malfoy says, gesturing vaguely to the side. "Life and liberty."

"You mean let you go?" Harry says, incredulous, as Malfoy claps, the very picture of delighted mockery. "Do you take me for a fool?"

"I know what you are, Malfoy," Harry says before Malfoy can get in whatever snide remark he has in store. "You were a coward before but now you're a monster as well."

"You presume too much, Potter," Malfoy says, voice tight and features drawn. "You don't know anything."

"I know you killed Ron!" Harry yells, anger rising as, try to suppress it as he might, Ron's face — white, pale, dead — keeps surfacing, pushing itself to the forefront of his mind and superimposing itself to the ground besides Malfoy's feet. He blinks and blinks again but still the image will not leave.

"That was... unfortunate," Malfoy says, looking to the ground while his knuckles grow white. "Believe it or not, it was an accident."

"Lies!" Harry hisses. He cocks his head and grins a terrible grin at Malfoy. "Don't make this hard on yourself. Let Basil go and surrender and I might go easy on you."

"You can't have your cake and eat it too, you know, Potter," Malfoy drawls lazily.

"Watch me," Harry says, wand raising and moving before Malfoy can react.

"Relashio!" Harry yells and a jet of fiery purple sparks comes erupting from his wand at the pair.

A look of surprise registers on both Basil and Malfoy's faces before they are forcefully thrown from each other. Basil goes soaring through the air, sailing towards the bushes where he lands face first into the middle of the plants with a strangled cry mixed in with a muffled curse.

Malfoy, on the other hand, is thrown backwards against the front door, his back cracking against the frame as a grimace of pain flashes across his face. Malfoy slides to the ground and Harry advances forward, wand brandished in front of him like a sword.

In a split second, barely the blink of an eye, Malfoy disappears from where he has landed.

Harry whirls around furiously, howling impotently, searching for a tell-tale flash of platinum.

"Come out, Malfoy!" Harry roars. "Stop hiding and face me like a man!"

"Don't you dare ru-" And suddenly all the breath is knocked out of Harry as a figure — a creature, an animal — with that trademark white hair barrels towards him and wraps spindly limbs around his legs. A scream tears halfway out of Harry's throat and cold, stark, fear rises in him as he lands, pain shooting up his spine, on his back, all air forcibly vacated out of his lungs.

He wheezes but no oxygen would enter and his chest burns as he claws the soft soil. The figure, wild and snarling, looms above him, pinning him to the ground and Harry catches a glint of grey, the moonlight seeming to reflect off the irises.

The creature — Malfoy — gnashes its teeth and Harry is almost oddly disappointed in how normal they look.

Harry balls his hands into fists and throws his all into a right hook that catches the man across his jaw but it is like throwing a rubber ball against a solid brick wall — completely and utterly useless.

Malfoy snarls again and horror seizes Harry as Malfoy slams down and sinks those normal, human teeth into the meat of his shoulder. Harry trashes wildly, flailing and bucking, trying to throw Malfoy off and dislodge his teeth, but Malfoy's bite is like a vice and each desperate movement only serves to tear the flesh further.

Harry's eyes dart frantically, mind racing as he struggles to think through the panicked haze - think, think, thin-

"Accio," Harry gasps and his wand, flung out of his hand when Malfoy tackled him earlier, darts into his open palm and he swiftly turns it to Malfoy, the spell squeezing out through ragged breaths, "Diffindo."

Malfoy rears back, tearing a chunk out of Harry's shoulder, as the skin on his pale neck splits open and blood pours forth freely. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Harry is aware that Malfoy does not spit out the flesh, that if it's not on the ground then it's down his gullet. But the thought of that is too massive, too chaotic to be contained in the confines of his head. All he can focus on in the moment is to regain the upper hand on Malfoy.

"Filipendo," Harry incants and Malfoy is propelled up and off him as Harry scrambles up. Taking advantage of the confusion, Harry casts, "Incarcerous!"

Thick ropes shoot out towards Malfoy, wrapping themselves around his torso and binding his arms and legs as panic creeps up his face. He struggles against the ropes once, twice, and then seems to deflate, sagging to the ground while his breaths exit in short puffs.

"Harry fucking Potter," Malfoy rasps then bursts out into mad, hysterical laughter.

"Shut up!" Harry yells, his wand arm straight and taut, the end pointing right at Malfoy's face, who in turn only laughs louder and harder, so much so that Harry can hear him straining to gulp in enough air between each guffaw. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Malfoy stops abruptly and if the outburst chilled Harry before, the sudden silence is downright eerie.

"Kill me."

Harry's eyes widen involuntarily and his wand wavers for a fraction.

"Get your revenge," Malfoy says, looking Harry straight in the eye. "It'll be the one good thing to come out of this entire affair."

"Well, Potter?" Malfoy taunts when Harry fails to reply. "You have me at your mercy now. Do it!"

Harry blinks. And for a moment there, he doesn't recognise Malfoy at all — not with the blood — _his_ blood — running down the side of his mouth or the gushing open hole in his neck or the feigned defiance, tainted with defeat, carved into his posture.

"Or do you want me to describe to you how Weasley died?"

Harry's mind instantly blanks and it's like he's detached from his self, like he is floating outside of his body, viewing a pantomime as a member of the audience instead of the actor on stage holding the weapon in his hand. He watches as he raises the wand, lifting it high above his head, ready to rain down fire and death like an avenging angel of the lord.

"Draco!" a voice screams and for the second time that night, all the air leaves Harry's body.

He turns mechanically to the door where the voice came from and an acute pain spikes through him as his vision blurs from the tears that springs, unbidden, to his eyes.

She looks a little paler than usual but seems otherwise unchanged. A longing, sudden and intense, to reach out and touch those soft brown curls spreads through Harry but he can no more move than he can breathe.

"Hermione..." he whispers but she doesn't seem to have heard or even seen him.

Harry realises with a start — and the knowledge hurts beyond belief — that all her attention is focused on the man bound and subdued on the ground.

"She has nothing to do with this," Malfoy says, kicking at whatever parts of Harry that he can reach, constricted as he is. He ignores the woman standing there at the doorway, watching him keenly, the words falling out of him in a rush. "I'm the monster. Kill me. Arrest me. Do whatever you want — to me, just me."

"Silencio." It takes Harry a while to realise that the spell had not in fact come from him.

There is no missing the look on her face even as she has her wand directed at Malfoy. Harry had seen it before on her face, a long time ago, as she looked at Ron lying on a bed in the Hospital Wing as he recovers from a bout of poisoning.

"Harry," she says and Harry tears himself away from Malfoy who's trying, without a voice, to communicate with him.

"Hermione..." Harry whispers again like her name is the only thing that he knows.

"Let him go," she says but Harry is shaking his head, unable - refusing - to believe the sounds that are coming out of her month.

"No, Hermione," Harry chokes out. Confusion, anger and hurt a potent mix swirling in his heart and mind. "No. For months, you've been missing. Now you've reappeared out of nowhere, and this is the first thing you ask of me?"

"No. If you knew the things he did, Hermione," Harry says, more firmly this time. She must have been bewitched or placed under a spell; there can be no other explanation. He'll just have to make her see reason, then his Hermione will return. "He's not... _human_."

"Wha- What?" Hermione falters, eyes wide, and Harry grows more confident that his previous assessment is right.

"Whatever he told you, he's lying!" Harry says, jabbing a finger in Malfoy's direction, blithely ignoring the baleful glare the latter directs at him.

"How do you-" Hermione starts to say.

"There is a book, in the Manor. It doesn't matter. He's not human and worse, he's a murderer, Hermione," Harry interrupts. "He's killed so many people. Fed on them. You didn't see the pictures, Hermione. All those bloodless corpses, drained until they're just withered husks."

"And Basil!" Harry says, a little too loudly, as he realises he's nearly forgotten about his partner, still stuck headfirst in the bushes. He rights the man with a careful spell and an apologetic look, severing the ropes while he's at it, but daren't move away from Malfoy to check on him. Basil grunts thanks but doesn't move from where Harry placed him, a grimace of pain etched into his expression. "He would have done the same to Basil, Hermione."

"Basil?" Hermione asks almost absent-mindedly like it's an act of courtesy than any real curiosity. When she turns to look at Basil, it's as if he's not really there and she's looking through him.

"He's my partner from the London Met," Harry soldiers on, willing her to see the absurdity of defending Malfoy. "We were assigned the vampire — _Malfoy's_ — case. The victims were all muggles — he's always hated them, hated _you_."

She raises a hand like she's heard enough and Harry quietens, hopeful that he's finally gotten through to her.

"Draco's not the one responsible, Harry," she says so quietly Harry has to strain to hear. "I am."

"No, no. What has he done to you?" Harry moans. Wrong, it's all wrong. It's even more serious than he thought. "We need to get you to St Mungo's — they'll know what to do. Clearly, this isn't a simple spell he has you under."

"I killed them, Harry. Those people. All of them," she says and just as Harry is about to protest, she continues, "And Ron-"

Harry freezes.

"I was there, when he died," she says but the words — he can hear them, but they're not making any sense. "It was an accident. He- fell off the stairs and broke his neck. I... By the time I reached him, he was gone."

"No..."

"Harry," she says with a tired sigh and he recoils from the sad look that she gives him, the insistent denial that has just been pounding in his head now begins to slip away from between his fingers.

She opens her mouth and he thinks she's about to smile but then his vision is filled with sharp teeth and he shakes his head, like doing that will shake away the sight in front of him and banish it far away.

"It's me, Harry."

"No."

"It's always been me."

"NO!" Harry screams. Pain jolts up his knees and he realises his legs have given way and he has crashed to the dirt. But the gravel digging into his knees is the least of his worries, especially when Hermione is telling him impossible things and Malfoy is staring at him with something akin to _pity_ in his gaze.

"How...?" Harry asks before he can stop himself because asking that is acknowledging this is real. "When...?"

"Slava. It's... a long story," she says, hugging herself and looking away. Harry screws his eyes shut. Of course, he recognises the name. He's only poured over it along with the other names a hundred, a thousand times, with Basil. Berenice's personal note, tacked on later, highlighting _that_ name — Slava — is still tucked into the pocket of one of his many pants, balled up and crumpled, forgotten in all the excitement.

"The two weeks I was gone," Hermione adds, glancing blankly at Harry. The all too familiar taste of bile coats the back of his tongue and he near gags on it.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Harry asks wretchedly.

"I didn't know then. It didn't seem important," Hermione shrugs. "And you didn't ask. Neither did Ron."

"You could have just- You should have told us," Harry says but Hermione shrugs again and Harry sags, all the fight draining off him.

"Now you know the truth," Hermione says quietly. "Let Draco go. It's me that you want."

"You- " Harry starts to say but stops to turn and swat Malfoy's leg. He doesn't need the other man's futile attempt at kicking to remind him of what he needs to do. "Don't ask this of me."

"Don't condemn an innocent man on my behalf, Harry," Hermione says and Harry swears he can hear Malfoy cursing and yelling in protest loudly despite the silencing spell.

"Take... Take Malfoy and go, Hermione," Harry says.

"Your case?"

"Let it remain unsolved," Harry says, defeat lacing his tone. "It's not the first, it won't be the last." He looks at Basil then, holding his gaze. The man stares back, long and hard, before he slowly nods once then swiftly turns away after. It is, Harry thinks, more than he deserves. He quietly thanks the other man and turns back to Hermione.

"And... Ron?" she asks, hesitant.

"I've already lost him," Harry replies. "Don't make me lose you as well."

Hermione nods.

Harry picks himself off the ground and walks towards Basil, giving Hermione a wide berth as she approaches the blond prat on the ground.

"Draco," Harry hears her whisper as she casts a non-verbal finite over him and the bindings recede. She immediately straddles him and Harry hurriedly looks away, focusing on healing Basil's injuries and quietly asking if the other man is okay. Ever the stoic type, Basil nods tersely and gingerly tries the wrist that Harry just healed.

Hermione is latched onto Malfoy's neck where Harry had cut him open when Harry next looks over at them. Malfoy's arms are encircled around her waist protectively and he seems to be whispering into her ear. A flush rising from his neck to his cheeks has Harry resolutely facing his back to them as he helps Basil up with one arm.

"Harry," Harry hears and he turns to see Hermione standing right behind him while Malfoy stands a ways away, keeping watch over them. She buries herself into his arms and Harry can almost believe that it is just them again, back at that camping trip from hell, seeking solace from each other.

"Thank you," she says, muffled against his shirt. Briefly, Harry allows himself to rest his chin on her hair but she isn't as warm as he remembered and she smells different. Tears spring to his eyes but he blinks them away before they can fall.

"Go far away and never come back," Harry murmurs. "I don't want to have to hunt you down next time."

Hermione pulls back slightly and looks up at him. Harry traces his gaze all over her features, committing each and every freckle to memory.

"Goodbye, Harry," she says, smiling, and that — that feels right.

"Goodbye, 'Mione," Harry replies.

* * *

The sun has just risen over the skyline when Harry steps foot back at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

He has just returned Basil to Diane and he'd been ready to leave, to never be able to step foot into their home again when Basil stopped him and asked him if he was going to bring Luna around the next time for dinner.

He had left them with promises and hugs and though his own shaky smiles feel forced, Basil's warm handshake is reassuring and accepting.

Now he paces the house, looking for Luna, wanting nothing more than to be wrapped in her warmth, feeling her fingers run through his hair while she untangles the knotted ends.

He finds her, affixing a carved stone on top of a disturbed plot of soil in the garden. He reads the word on it and nearly chokes on the way the air rushed out of his lungs. The memory of her, burying something in the garden months ago, comes barrelling to the forefront of his mind and he doubles over, wheezing and sobbing noisily.

He should have asked her, all those months ago, what she was doing. If he had asked her, she would have told him. She would never out rightly lie to him but Luna has a way of evading telling the truth by avoiding getting into a situation that would prompt it to come up in the first place. She'd known he wouldn't ask and like a fool, he had let it be.

Maybe knowing then would have saved them all the pain. Maybe it would have made things worse. He will never know.

"Have you always known?" Harry asks — _now_ he does, too little, too late.

"No," she says, patting the soil into place. "I pieced it together, eventually."

"Berenice's note helped," Luna says, squinting up at him at the strangled noise that he let out.

"He deserves this at least, don't you think?" Luna asks, patting the stone as she stands up and joins Harry at his side. The name 'Crookshanks' stares back at him from the stone.

Luna leans her head against his shoulder and nuzzles his cheek with her nose. "Come in when you're ready," she says, giving him a light squeeze of the hand before going back into the house.

Harry can't be sure how long he stood there but the sun has turned hot and he can feel the heat rising from the ground. His throat is dry and he's awfully thirsty but still he can't go in yet.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the book he got from Ron — the one with the strange script and pages of tear-stained notes.

Really, he ought to burn it. Something like this shouldn't have even existed in the first place.

And yet.

Malfoy's not the abomination. Hermione-

Harry stops himself there. He shifts his gaze down to the makeshift tombstone for Crookshanks and tucks the book back into his pocket.

He'll deal with it later. For now, what he needs is Luna and a glass of ice cold water.

He turns and heads towards the garden entrance of his home, the book weighing heavily against his chest, never once looking back.

 **Fin**

* * *

 **A/N: And there you have it. This and Dying of the Light are finally at an end. Between the two (and I do officially count them both as one fic), I've put in around 85k words. It's the first multi-chaptered fic I've finished. This is me proving a point to myself that I can write something that is novel length and that I can finish a project. Thank you to everyone who has followed me on this absurdity of mine - every single one of you has made the process worth it.**

 **There will be no further continuation to this story. I've always planned to have it end this way and anything after is up to you to interpret and imagine.**

 **So, I do have several multi-chaptered fics (the point may have been proven but the work is not yet ended, besides it really has been quite fun) planned.**

 **Just to name a few:**

 **1\. Dark!Harry AU - this will be long and terrible and it'll probably be the death of me, but hey, a challenge.**

 **2\. Changeling AU - Discworld inspired**

 **3\. Muggle AU**

 **And some possible one-shots. If you're interested in reading any of them, then follow me as an author. I haven't figured out the update schedule for any of them and it'll likely be a few of weeks before there's anything concrete, but I will try my best. In the meantime, why not read some of my other one-shots?**

 **Thank you again for reading and lastly, as always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" makes my day.**


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